Adamant: Book 3 of the Stones Trilogy
by BT Adventurers
Summary: Nik the urukhai has sworn to do what no orc has done before: testify to his innocence of murder after killing a man in defense of human life. But will Nik's truth overcome the lies of unscrupulous men? Conclusion to the Stones Trilogy! In Progress.
1. Prologue

**ADAMANT**

**By Celebsul, ErinRua, and Sevilodorf **

**Being the Third Part of the Stones Trilogy**

**Prologue**

_Mid-September, 1422 SR - Northern Ithilien_

Russ sat alone on the porch of the lodge, smoking a pipe and looking out over the moonlit marsh. The nights grew steadily colder now and the days shorter. It would not be long before autumn faded away and the winds of winter swept over Middle-earth. Other things were coming also, things Russ preferred not to think about, but come they would all the same. Brief as that passing thought was, it soured his mood.

"Let them, then," he muttered and said no more.

His mind, though, would not be silent. Soon the Ranger, Halbarad, would come looking for him and Nik. Russ growled, a bearish sound inherent to his nature that rumbled deep in his chest. Broodingly he pondered the creature asleep within his hall; an undersized Uruk-hai whom he had rescued like a pitiable piece of storm-wrack many months past. What he did not expect was the unlikely friendship that grew between them, or the primitive yet earnest nobility that Nik struggled to embrace - to his own peril.

Russ recalled the terrible events of January, and how, with what seemed a foolhardy gesture, the little uruk had agreed to take part in some future façade of justice. He thought the idea a bad one at the time and the passing of the months had not softened his view one bit. Why must Nik be dragged all the way to Henneth Annûn and be put on display like some wild beast? What was he accused of? Murder? Nik had been attacked and taken against his will, imprisoned, beaten and would have been killed had those responsible been allowed to have their way.

Not only Nik, but a woman of Rohan as well: Sevilodorf became hostage also, when that meddlesome nobleman, Darien, brought his orc hunters to Ithilien. Sev sometimes traded with the tiny band of local orcs who eked a meagre peace in the wilds. The exchange involved mainly tonics and herbal remedies for the semi-precious stones the orcs chiselled from the foothills. Lord Darien saw this as the perfect lead towards tracking the orcs down. When Sev refused coercion, the hunters resorted to kidnapping. It remained but a short step for one man to leap into a killing rage. Were it not for Nik's actions, Sev and Nik both would likely have been slain. And for saving her life, Nik stood accused of murder.

Murder. If those were the conditions by which one could be charged with such a crime, then who was innocent? Certainly not Russ, for he had taken the life of a man at that time as well, and with far less provocation. Was he accused? Of course not, he was a man. But Nik was not; therein lay the problem. Uruk-hai were among the most despised of all the creatures of Middle-earth and not without reason. They were, for the most part, a vicious, violent race. A race created for a single purpose: the utter destruction of the world of men and elves. They had been the soldiers of Isengard, the hammer of Saruman and they were rightly reviled.

But with the fall of Mordor and Orthanc things changed. The power of the Dark Lord and his servant ended and the uruks and the orcs no longer toiled under the control of their masters. Most who survived remained as little more than beasts, driven by their own savage instincts. But a very few sought to find their own path in the world, having avoided the frenzy of hate that washed over the land in the days after the war: days during which men hunted most of their kind to the brink of extinction. Nik was one of those. And now, despite all that he survived, despite displaying the kind of selfless honour that most men, especially those who hunted him, only talk about, Nik was to be brought before and judged by these same people. How was that justice?

"Stewards and Kings and Captains and judges - confound them all!" Russ the Beorning bellowed into the night.

If he were allowed to have his way, there would be no trial, no 'justice'. As far as he was concerned, justice was served with the death of the killer, Grady. But Russ did not have his way. Instead, Nik spoke up and took an oath to present himself before the Steward.

An oath.

Nik had sworn an oath.

Shaking his head, Russ thought that an unbelievable mistake. Nik failed to understand the full implications of what he had done. The Beorning knew this as soon as Nik spoke the words. But mistake or not, an oath is an oath and it must be fulfilled. Russ sighed. He would have to take Nik to the Steward; there was no getting around it. And even though every ounce of common sense in his enormous body told him that this was a mistake, he had no choice in the matter; Nik had made the choice for him.

Russ found no relief in the news that the King had granted legal rights to all 'people' who sought to live in peace, including the likes of Nik. Beornings needed no such laws; they were an authority in their own right. Natural justice served their purpose far better than the complex, drawn-out legalities of state officialdom. As far as Russ could see, the amended law made not a jot of difference to Nik's situation. The irony was that had it been passed months earlier, it would be the uruk's attackers having to answer for their actions, rather than the other way around.

Scratching his beard in irritation, Russ inspected his moonlit farm. Much had been accomplished in the time they resided here. A barn and house raised, crops planted and harvested, the winter wheat already sown. Now, after all the year's labour, they should be enjoying its fruits. Now, while the weather remained mild, was a time for singing and laughing, for midnight strolls, for smoking and telling tales late into the night. Such things were their just reward for long months of hard work. But because of one man's selfishness and one Uruk-hai's honour, it looked as though these pleasures might not come to pass.

Going into the house, Russ scribbled a note on a piece of paper and called his dogs, Quick and Dasher. Quick took the note gingerly in his mouth while the Beorning gave them instructions.

"Take this to The Burping Troll," he told them. "If they are sleeping, leave it by the door."

The dogs nodded their understanding and trotted off into the night.

Done - at least he had set his own time scales. Let Halbarad put the slow wheels of 'justice' in motion. Russ and Nik would appear at the end of October to take their part in the charade - a trip to Henneth Annûn and a hopefully short hearing. Then, perhaps, they could put this matter to rest once and for all. But what form that would take was anybody's guess.

xxx

TBC ...


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_October 1st - Emyn Arnen_

Bending stiffly from the waist, Willelmus set a glass of wine in front of his prince then, with studied silence, placed another alongside the plump hand of the law lord who sat as guest. Faramir's head dipped slightly, dismissing the chamberlain while his attention focused upon the vast figure seated opposite. Events were not turning out as planned.

A week ago, a minor circuit judge topped the list to hear the case of Nik the Uruk-hai. Now the man lay stricken by an unpleasant stomach ailment, leaving the in-all-ways colossal Lord Valthaur next in line. Everyone agreed that Nik's attack on his kidnapper would be excused as a clear instance of self-defence. Thus, asking the eminent, home-loving Valthaur to travel to Henneth Annûn for such a simple hearing seemed unwarranted; the Prince of Ithilien felt they were sending a sledgehammer to crack a hazelnut.

Leather groaned around the circumference of the law lord's belly as his belt attempted to yield to the slight movements involved in raising a glass and sampling its contents. A smile curled the corners of ample lips, and several chins rippled with appreciation.

"Excellent, my lord," Valthaur wheezed. "Yet another exotic taste for my palette. I envy the quality and diversity of your cellars."

Faramir nodded acknowledgement while reminding himself to thank Willelmus later. Despite the chamberlain's many faults, he could be relied upon to search amongst the racks of lesser wines to unearth a treasure worthy of this fastidious connoisseur. The prince wondered whether he should ask Willelmus to select several other bottles and then accompany Valthaur on the journey.

Sipping from his own drink, Faramir schooled his face against the wince that threatened when the acrid liquid assailed his tongue. He would have much preferred the refreshing tang of ale.

"I'm loath to inflict the inconvenience of this hearing upon you, Lord Valthaur. Any of the circuit judges could deal with it. Your skills are better suited to the complex cases scheduled for the city courts."

"Ah!" Valthaur lowered his glass and peered into it, inspecting the smoky elixir. "Beneath my dignity?"

The prince shook his head, but allowed Valthaur to speak on.

"Lord Goldur comes to no harm by travelling and hearing trials both small and large. It would do me good to get out for once, to breathe the air beyond the walls of Minas Tirith and Emyn Arnen, to see the simple lives of rural people."

Fat fingers wiggled emphasis to the rasping voice. "Besides, this should prove a ground-breaking case. In the months since we passed the legislation allowing orcs the same justice as other peoples, not one trial has been held where the accused was found innocent; not one trial has resulted from an orc actively seeking judgement. All cases have been of orcs arrested for wrongdoing. Now, at last, this Uruk-hai appeals to the laws of men. All the evidence suggests he is completely innocent. When he is exonerated, think of the influence that will have on others of orc-kind. They will see the even-handedness of the King's Justice. Then some, maybe many, will make the effort to live as law-abiding citizens."

Those sentiments lifted a slight weight from Faramir's shoulders. Of course Valthaur would leap, metaphorically, at the chance of presiding over such a significant event. It also eased the prince's astonishment at the law lord's ready agreement to leave his luxurious home for an extended period. Under normal circumstances the man could not be prised away from his collection of rare furnishings and artefacts, nor the unusual arboretum in the centre of his house where he grew … of all things … hollyhocks.

"I see your point. By the way, how are your flowers coming along?" Faramir nudged the conversation into informality.

An elf-like gleam danced in Valthaur's eyes at the mention of his hobby. "I've collected some promising seeds from the darkest plants I've grown. Every crop, by selective pollination, I manage a deeper purple. It should not be too much longer before I cultivate an almost-black variety."

The mention of pollination caused a brief image to flicker in Faramir's mind - Valthaur the bumblebee. Aside from size and lack of stripes, the resemblance definitely existed.

"That is interesting. Why did you decide on breeding hollyhocks rather than a rarer species?"

Listening to the law lord espouse the many virtues of the gangling mallow, from medicinal to the colouring qualities of the calyx, Faramir planned a course ahead. The Uruk-hai's hearing would be held on the twenty-fifth of October. Tomorrow, messengers must be sent out to inform witnesses of the date, giving them time to prepare and make the journey. Most of those involved in the original tragedy had sworn to be present. Lord Darien, the reformed orc hunter, and his men must travel the furthest, from the Silverbrook holding in the Blackroot Vale. Captain Halbarad, Sevilodorf and others from The Burping Troll, people the prince regarded with more than a little warmth, need only make the short trip to Henneth Annûn. Everything looked set to proceed smoothly, but still a shadow loomed: the Beorning.

Faramir smothered a sigh and raised his eyebrows at Valthaur's claim that hollyhocks helped ease chest problems; there appeared little evidence to support this as the man sucked whistling breaths around his words. Returning to his reverie, Faramir recalled meeting the little Uruk-hai, Nik, along with the daunting Russ Beorn, at the wedding of his Ranger captain, Halbarad and the lovely Elanna, now a Ranger in her own father's footsteps. Beornings were a law unto themselves: private, unpredictable folk who usually shunned gatherings. Nevertheless, Faramir held Russ and his kinsmen in high regard, and it suited both Prince and King, to have the skin-changer's keen senses guarding the otherwise deserted region of Nindalf.

His account of plant breeding complete, Valthaur tipped the last of his wine into his mouth. Faramir did likewise then smiled at the obese judge. A consummate professional with a mind sharper than an elven blade, Lord Valthaur would undoubtedly take the measure of the Beorning and know how to keep him sweet. A one or two-day hearing, then the skin-changer could return to his isolated farm in the company of his innocent Uruk-hai ward.

xxx

_October 10th - Northern Ithilien_

Halbarad, Captain of the small Ranger contingent posted at The Burping Troll, paused upon a flat grey stone. The flagstone served as a doorstep to the private quarters behind the workshop the elves had built adjacent to the inn. The warm glow of lamplight around the edges of the window's thick curtains signalled the occupants were within, but still he hesitated. The news he bore had held this long, certainly it would hold one more night. Give those within an evening of peace before being tossed into the maelstrom of anxiety his announcement was certain to create.

Then again, if it were suspected he delayed delivery of this information because of any desire to soften the news, a firestorm of indignation would be directed at him. Sevilodorf of Rohan was not a person to welcome such consideration, much preferring to face all of life's difficulties head on. Weighing the odds of the trader-woman discovering his subterfuge, the Ranger captain delayed one moment too long and the opportunity for postponement was taken from his hands.

The door before him opened, and Hal found himself face to face with the object of his consideration.

Drawing back only momentarily, Sevilodorf said placidly, "Taken to lurking on doorsteps, Captain? Mind the cat, and come in."

Stepping gingerly over the large black tom now twining about his boots, Hal replied, "I heard you were back. I trust your trading venture went well."

Comfortably rounded in her figure and crowned with the dark hair of her Dunlander mother, Sev snorted and closed the door behind him. "With four hobbits, a half dozen elves and a trio of Rangers as witnesses to our arrival, I don't see how you could avoid the news. But surely, you didn't stop by just to welcome us home."

"Hello, Halbarad, did the hobbits kick you out already?"

Tall and like enough to Halbarad to be a kinsman, Anardil the former Ranger stood to greet his old friend, a lopsided grin quirking his face. Eyes met in brotherly accord, the same dark hair hung almost to their shoulders. However, in Anardil's locks lantern light touched a hint of frost, while beneath his left shoulder a pinned-up sleeve bore silent witness to the reason he no longer wore a Ranger's star.

Smiling broadly, Halbarad accepted his handclasp. "Not yet. In fact, I'm in trouble now for missing dinner." He settled onto the edge of the chair Sevilodorf indicated, but waved off an offer of a mug of tea. "Thank you, but no. I've only come to give you some news and will not disturb you any longer than I must."

His glance shifted, from the half-unpacked bags still littering the bed, to Sev's puzzled expression.

"Me?" she exclaimed, upon realising the message was directed at her.

"It's been nearly a year," Hal began, only to halt as Sev's face drained of colour.

Stiffly she sank into the chair opposite him. "Nik's trial. It's time."

"Yes. The hearing is set for the twenty-fifth of this month. By all accounts, it should be a rather simple procedure."

Anardil caught a strange hesitancy in his friend's voice and studied him thoughtfully while Sev gave a hollow laugh and replied, "Remember whom you're talking to when you say that, Hal. I'm the one who went out to make a simple trade and ended up buried by a mudslide with a man who wanted to kill me."

Reaching up to clasp the hand Anardil placed upon her shoulder, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "At any road, it will be a relief to finally have it finished. Nik did nothing wrong. Those who were there have sworn to speak the truth of the events."

The two men exchanged glances, but said nothing as Sev asked, "You've told Russ and Nik?"

"Yes, that's where I was today."

"And Darien and his men will have been summoned in plenty of time? We won't be basing all of this on my word?"

"Certainly. Lord Faramir has stretched protocol to the limits by bowing to Russ in terms of the day and place for the trial." Halbarad leaned forward, earnest as a boy in his wish to set her mind at ease. "Everyone is determined that all be done within the boundaries of the law. The trials involving orcs have thus far been conducted with the utmost care, and so will this one be."

Frowning, Sev shook her head. "That is no comfort, Hal, but I thank you for telling me so quickly. I appreciate that you didn't try to put it off until morning."

Recognising his dismissal, Hal stood. "All will be well, Sev. Trust to the law."

His look remained troubled when Sev rose, her fingers tight-clasped, but he held his tongue. Even as he watched, she dropped her hands and straightened her shoulders.

Blue eyes steady, she replied, "I shall. Thank you again, Captain."

The Ranger nodded and touched her arm ere he turned away. In so doing, however, he cast a quick, hopeful glance over her head. Anardil noted it without a blink.

"Let me walk you back, Hal," he said. "I think I left my pouch of pipeweed behind the bar in the common room. I'll only be a moment, Sevi."

With a smile and a fleeting caress to her cheek, he followed Hal outside. They walked around the workshop in companionable silence, but then Anardil stopped midway across the yard.

"And what is it you didn't tell her?"

Halbarad grimaced as he faced his friend. "Cowardly of me, I know, but I couldn't stand to unload all the news at once."

Anardil waited without speaking.

"There was a last minute change in judges. Lord Meneltir was on the list to officiate, but he's taken ill." When Anardil remained silent, Hal wryly reflected how his old comrade had perfected staring to the point a man would say almost anything just to get Anardil to blink. "It's Valthaur."

The former Ranger's brows lifted in surprise. Once seen, few could forget the colossal law lord, and in the arena of wits, he could turn words back upon his opponent as surely as any sword. During the proceedings that assured due process for even orcs within the realm, Valthaur's oratory had spellbound the hall - and nearly terrified Sev. In the course of questioning, she had been called to reveal heartaches she had hitherto kept buried deep. Anardil had never been so proud of his lady, as when she held her courage before Valthaur's brutal shrewdness, but the effort came not without cost

Knowing this, he eyed Hal soberly. "And why would such an exalted lord, who seldom leaves the comforts of the White City, agree to take on such a task?"

"You do drive straight to the heart of the matter, don't you?" Hal shook his head. "Because Lord Faramir requested it."

"Why would the Lord Steward do such a thing?"

"Because Valthaur was next on the roster - because there cannot be the slightest hint of favouritism in this trial. As I said to Sev, the boundaries of protocol have been pushed as far as possible."

"Protocol has resulted in the death of many."

"I know that," Hal snapped, casting a quick glance to assure no one could hear them. "But we have to uphold the law, for the law is what separates us from the beasts! Nik's only hope depends on just execution of the law."

However, Anardil regarded him solemnly. In his view, Halbarad had always seen in black and white, but there were many shades of grey in the world.

"Very well. I will deliver this unpleasant news for you. You are right in thinking that it will be difficult for Sev to hear. However…" Anardil exhaled in a long sigh. "She withstood Valthaur the first time and met her task. She will this time, as well."

"Valthaur may not have won yours or Sev's fondness, but recall he was advocating the cause assigned to him. For Nik's hearing, he will only be establishing the facts. There is no reason why that should be confrontational." At Anardil's disbelieving expression, Hal added, "I'm more concerned that the trial of a Uruk-hai in town might stir up local matters that have yet to be resolved. There are still loose ends left from last spring."

"The orc attack outside Henneth Annûn?"

Both men exchanged grim glances of remembrance. A near thing it had been, when not long before the hearing to amend the law, a band of orcs had ambushed Sev and her companions nearly within view of the village. That wild orcs would risk an attack so close to a place literally overrun with Rangers was unthinkable, but the matter of who incited them remained yet unproven.

Halbarad nodded. "There are also unanswered questions surrounding the girl found dead in Minas Tirith, and the link to the mysterious Margul who was in Henneth Annûn at the time of the orc attack."

"Aye, a dead girl found in a rich merchant's house, who may have been one of his spies - but to what purpose? Master Margul was not alone in opposing rights of law for orcs, but the intensity of his interest baffles me. Why would he set spies to watching our Burping Troll folk?" Anardil pursed his mouth. "And since the hearing he's remained completely invisible. I wonder if he's even in Gondor any longer."

"No word from his local spy, Sira?" Hal's crooked grin held remembrance of the barmaid from The Whistling Dog in Henneth Annûn, whom Margul jilted when her purpose was finished.

"Not a one." Anardil's mien turned decidedly gloomy. "And her accusation that he masterminded the ambush is completely unsupported. We have nothing more than the ravings of a scorned lover."

Cocking an eyebrow, Hal asked, "Do you still believe there is a connection between Margul and the attacks?"

Grimly Anardil shook his head, though not in negation but in frustration. "A belief without proof is supposition. The law does not deal with suppositions, Captain. And proof I am unable to find. Only the scattered words of a barmaid, a farm boy and a dull witted orc."

"Not all orcs are dull witted."

Anardil nodded, his eyes narrowing in sudden thought. "True enough, my friend. Perhaps I will make a visit to one of the more intelligent of the species. I believe I have some new questions to ask."

Hal chuckled. "Ah, I didn't think your clever mind would rest for long. Do I foresee a trip to The Black Cauldron in your near future?"

"I think so... . Maybe we need a perspective through other than human eyes."

Smiling, Hal reached and gripped Anardil's shoulder. "It's good to have you home. Now I think you have a lady waiting."

An abrupt smile spread across Anardil's face. "That I do, Captain. That I do."

Thus they parted, each thinking and planning for the days to come.

xxx

_October 17th - Travelling from the Blackroot Vale_

Darien, Lord of Silverbrook, winced at the raucous laughter coming from the men at the campfire, and tossed the dregs of his tea into the darkness. What madness had driven him to ever accept Osric as a member of his company? The man moved from petulance not to be tolerated from a child to a coarse humour worthy of the worst tavern bawd. Secure in the knowledge he would not be dismissed from service until after the upcoming hearing, the man gave every indication of enjoying Darien's increasing dislike.

"Patience, my friend," a voice murmured. "Allow him pleasure in his petty irritations. His usefulness is nearly done."

Glancing over his shoulder to the night-shaded tree where the Haradrim stood, Darien replied, "Aye, Horus. It's my shame that I ever believed him to have a use. He reminds me of no one so much as Grady. Osric had best recall that, if it were not for the little Uruk-hai killing Grady to save Sevilodorf, we would have all faced murder charges."

Black eyes glittered in shadow. "And to your honour, you have striven to redress the damages we wrought, even if the likes of Osric disapprove of all that you helped achieve."

Laughter again broke the stillness of the night and Darien watched tight jawed as Osric shuffled orc-like about the fire in the midst of another story. Thousands of years of enmity would not vanish at the stroke of a pen; and for some, the concept of anything less than animosity towards their ancient foe could only curdle into ridicule. While he recognised it as the men's way of dealing with the changes expected of them by the newly passed laws, giving orcs the same rights of men, Darien could not help wishing all his men felt as Horus and himself did. Here were the days of a new King, a new age, and the King's justice must reach to all.

Thinking of those summoned to speak at the hearing, Darien could only hope that simple statements of the facts of the events were all that were required. Ham and Tom were good enough sorts, but easily influenced. In recent months they had spent more and more time with Osric and thus adopted his outlook on life. Such irreverent attitudes would not impress a law lord.

Thankfully, Bevin possessed more sense. Darien knew the man had experienced great difficulty accepting the new laws, but trusted his innate honesty would lead the man to speak only with sincerity. Then there was Evan; at just fifteen, the lad possessed more good intelligence than many an adult did. It was just a pity that Neil and Carrick would not also be called upon to speak, but those two had not witnessed the actual events. They only accompanied Darien because they had sworn to attend Nik's hearing in the dreadful reckoning that followed the disastrous orc-hunt.

Darien's attention returned to the men by the fire. The trio lingered, telling jokes while the other men worked. Evan and his brother Neil crouched down by the stream washing dishes. Bevin and Carrick could be heard talking quietly as they settled the horses for the night.

Always trying to lead by example, Darien had assisted Horus in the preparation of supper. But sometimes example required a boot behind it.

"Ham, Tom, Osric, we need more wood for the fire. It's a chill night."

"Will do." Tom instantly leapt to his feet, and Ham sprang up also. Osric glared at them both, then at Darien. He rose with insolent slowness, but he obeyed.

When the trio moved off into the woods, Horus stepped out of the shadow to stand by Darien. "His mood has worsened since we received the summons. Perhaps it is nervousness."

"You imagine Osric has nerves?"

The usually staid Lord of Silverbrook grinned down at the smaller man. Horus' snort of humour marked the relaxed relationship that they had established in recent months. Once the Haradrim owed fealty to Darien for rescue and mercy on the field of battle, but following their involvement in the winning of legal recognition for orcs, Darien had urged Horus to try freedom and friendship rather than servitude. The culture from which the Haradrim came made this a difficult feat, yet here Horus stood, exchanging companionable banter.

"He has at least one," Horus replied cryptically.

After looking nonplussed for a moment, a slow smile of appreciative comprehension spread across Darien's face. The expression of mirth then shifted to one of wryness.

"It is to be hoped that fate has a sense of humour. For to defend an Uruk-hai accused of murder with the very men who sought to murder him has the appearance of the absurd."

"In order to obtain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd."

"More of your Haradric wisdom? I fear we have moved beyond the impossible to the improbable." Darien shook his head in an effort to throw off his sense of unreality. Touching the black stone within the carved wooden charm hanging from his belt, he spoke on. "But no, we have come so far and will not retreat. Before we convinced people to bend as Master Celebsul persuaded the wood to accept the obsidian. Now, my friend, it is necessary to become like adamant, unwavering, and hold to the law that has been established."

Horus' hand lifted briefly to his forehead in acceptance of Darien's words, then he said quietly, "Truth is a point, the subtlest and finest; harder than adamant; never to be broken, worn away or blunted."

"Harder than adamant, never to be blunted." Darien sighed heavily. "Let us hope that we never fall against such truth, for that would prove deadly I fear."

xxx

_October 21st - Henneth Annûn_

Pale eyes peered from between the gnarled roots of an ancient oak balanced on the river's edge. Upon the dark water drifted pale billows of fog, coalescing into mysterious shapes that faded and disappeared. Midnight came and went with no sign of the awaited boat. Burrowing deeper into the pile of leaves, which served as covering in more ways than one, Odbut considered what he would do if the man did not show tonight. Two days he had waited already. If he were gone much longer, there would be those who wondered about his absence; and it would not do for attention to be drawn to him.

Hours passed, the fog slowly danced, and, save for the soft sound of night creatures, the orc's vigilance remained undisturbed. Then his straining ears caught the splash of a muffled oar carried across the water and brought him creeping from the shadows. The mists parted and the dark prow of a small boat appeared.

No word passed between the boatman and his passenger as the craft nosed against the bank. The taller of the pair stepped lightly to the shore to stand narrow-eyed in the moonlight. With a grunt, the rower slipped the boat back into the river's current and disappeared as quietly as he had arrived.

Despite the heavy disguise of shaggy beard and hair, and shabby cloak, Odbut could not fail to recognise his master. The wiry body, stiff back and arrogant tilt of chin were all too familiar. When the man peered around, pearly light shone from beneath his eyelids, tinged with the palest green, as if reflecting a moon grown sickly. Without intending to, the orc took a step backwards. Then, disgusted at the rush of fear, he resorted to his customary insolence.

"So yer finally got 'ere." Odbut's words drew the silvery eyes of the man unerringly to the orc's twisted form in the oak's deep shadow.

"Yes, there is business to be finished, and the time has come to do so." The man's voice was even and slow. "Has all been done as I requested?"

"Aye. Though I've no idea why yer waste my time on a female and a pig boy. Slash their throats and leave 'em to the crows is what I say."

"And that is why I am the master and you are not." After allowing his words time to sink in, the man repeated, "Has all been done as I requested?"

Recognising the signs of incipient foul temper, Odbut mumbled, "Aye, they're watched. Word's out some high and mighty law lord is coming to hold a trial."

"So I've been informed. All the birds in one bush as it were." The man's quiet laugh set the hairs on the orc's neck to quivering. "Have you prepared me a place?"

"Aye, though it's not what yer accustomed to."

"'Tis a temporary situation, I assure you."

xxx

TBC ...


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_October 22nd - Henneth Annûn_

On the front step of the rambling building that housed the Ranger presence in the village of Henneth Annûn, an unlikely pair faced each other. One stood tall and stern with a sword at his side, garbed in the greens and browns of an Ithilien Ranger. The other seemed but a weed of a man in comparison, until one noted the shrewish obstinacy punctuating his every word.

"You are certain, Captain, that the orc and his keeper will appear at the expected time?"

The stone face adopted by Tarannon at the beginning of this session with Valthaur's law clerk somehow held firm. Regardless of Khint's obvious belief that this hearing was a matter far beneath his master's notice, the Ranger remained determined nobody involved would find fault with the way he or his men conducted themselves.

In a voice known to freeze the entrails of young recruits, Tarannon replied, "Captain Halbarad has given his word."

The clerk's facial expression, limited to jerks of his dark, spiky eyebrows and moustache, displayed neither intimidation nor reassurance. Small, skinny and bald, everything about Khint seemed unremarkable, everything but his facial hair and equally spiky attitude.

"Perhaps it would be best if you sent an escort of Rangers."

The muscles of Tarannon's jaw tightened slightly. "I don't believe that will be necessary."

"If your men are otherwise occupied, I am certain we could request some from the garrison."

Striving to keep his voice lowered, Tarannon said slowly, "A Ranger's word has been given. The orc will be here on the twenty fifth."

"I do hope your trust is not misplaced, Captain." Khint's moustache curled into a sneer that begged to be slapped away, but again Tarannon's control held. The clerk peered around, eyebrows flapping like batwings, and continued, "However, if you are certain, we will let the matter rest for now. As for Lord Valthaur's accommodations, your sacrifice of your own quarters is greatly appreciated. Neither of the inns I saw when I rode through the village would be adequate. You said room is available here for the other staff?"

To Tarannon's relief, one of his Rangers arrived to offer assistance. Gladly, he gave the clerk over to the younger man's keeping, claiming other duties. If Khint wanted to perform yet another review of the housing arrangements, he could damn well do it without wasting any more of the Captain's valuable time.

Then while he marched stiffly away, Tarannon quietly cursed each resident of The Burping Troll Inn and its surrounds. Every ounce of trouble that came the his way lately had been grown, brewed, or otherwise brought into existence by that peculiar crowd. The sooner they completed their affairs in his nice, peaceful village, the happier he would be. He only prayed the village still stood when they left.

xxx

_October 22nd_

Under a sky darkened by the approach of night and rain, Darien and his group rode into Henneth Annûn. Dusty, hungry and weary, they hoped to find ease for their discomforts at The Whistling Dog. Leaving his men with the horses, Darien walked into the tavern where the innkeeper's face lit up in recognition. The cheery greeting warmed the traveller's spirits, though Cameroth's response to Darien's request for accommodation for nine men proved less heartening.

"Sorry, we're unusually busy - even got some of the Rangers sleeping here so this judge who's coming can stay at the station. I've only got one room spare. It could take up to four of you; the rest can bunk down in the barn if you wish. We can surely feed you all, and maybe find enough water for everyone to clean up." At Darien's doubtful expression, Cameroth grimaced and continued. "There's probably space at The Black Cauldron, if you'd prefer."

Grimacing in return, Darien replied, "I'll ask my men what they want to do, but I'll definitely take that last room. I'm sure most of us would prefer your hospitality and fare."

Back outside in the deepening dusk, Darien explained the situation and suggested, "Horus, Evan, Neal and I could take the room here." He glanced at the fifteen-year-old. "I'd not want Evan going to The Black Cauldron or sleeping in the barn. The rest of you can stay where you prefer. Whatever you choose, I'm buying supper for us all tonight."

Osric's insolent voice smeared across the gathering. "From what I've heard there's nothing wrong with The Black Cauldron - more fun over there than in this stiff-necked place, orcs or no. I'll go there. You coming with me?" His eyes took in Tom, Ham, Bevin and Carrick.

"Sounds good to me … if we can eat here," Ham replied jovially. Tom nodded in agreement.

Gaze fixed on his horse's mane, Carrick muttered, "Think I prefer the barn."

"Me too," Bevin agreed.

So they reached an understanding. Osric, Tom and Ham would go to The Black Cauldron; the rest would stay at The Whistling Dog. All would meet at the Dog for supper.

No one paid much attention to the man wandering aimlessly nearby - a clerk or apothecary, pondering his papers or which herb to add to some obscure cure. Darien cast a look over his shoulder. At some level of consciousness, he felt disturbed. But no eyes peered back. Nothing flickered beneath the bristling brows of the stranger in the street. The scent of herbed mutton dragged Darien's feet back into the warmth of the tavern. A bath, a pint of ale, then supper with his men - let all else wait until tomorrow.

xxx

Last to take his seat for supper, Neal nodded to his captain's quiet question. "Yes, sir, the horses are all comfortably bedded down and fed."

While Darien smiled approval, the glance that shot from Tom to Ham to Osric indicated that they had not checked their own mounts' accommodation at The Black Cauldron. Darien and Horus exchanged a brief look but said nothing, sitting back to allow the serving girl to set a large pot of soup in the centre of the table. A brief scramble for the ladle ensued, Osric winning and spooning his bowl full to almost overflowing. When the ladle came Darien's way, he handed it to Neal, whom he knew would then pass it to Evan. The pot held more than enough for all of them. With bread and two further courses, no one would go hungry tonight, but old habits died hard.

Finally taking his share of the soup, Darien only half-listened to the chatter surrounding him. Osric, being the loudest, hogged attention as much as he did food. Breaking bread to dip into the appetising broth of vegetables and meat, Darien again noticed the innocuous, bushy-browed man seated at a nearby table. He thought no more about it, aside from a passing tinge of sympathy for a man supping alone. But that pang of emotion triggered nostalgia for his lost friend and second-in-command, Landis.

The comradeship of Darien and Landis survived years of fighting off orc attacks, years of war. After war ended, they rode side-by-side in orc hunts, leading their men, clearing out the last remnants of the enemy. Then fate brought them to this region, brought them to folly where a landslide separated them. Landis held true to his noble nature, deep in that cave. When Grady, the mercenary, grew insane with claustrophobia and threatened to kill their two captives, Landis intervened; despite being already injured, he fought to protect the intended victims. Grady not only wounded Landis, he viciously ensured the wound would prove fatal. Many of the trapped men wished to avenge Landis, but the kidnapped uruk moved faster than any, ensuring the mad man could not complete more of his murderous intentions. Those events ultimately led them here.

Osric's voice filtered through the reverie. "… all this fuss for some ruddy little vermin. Anyway, I said I'd do it and here I am."

Frowning, Darien bit back a retort. What would be the point? The man had honoured his vow to come and tell the facts. It was not incumbent on him to change his likes and dislikes. Let it suffice that in three days time, Osric and the other witnesses simply tell the truth.

xxx

_October 23rd_

After a day of exploring the town, Osric, Ham and Tom chose to try the fare at The Black Cauldron. The previous night they sampled the inn's ale after returning from The Whistling Dog. They found the taste and, particularly, the price agreeable. As Darien did not again offer to pay for supper, they were content to eat at the less expensive inn.

The food turned out to be strongly flavoured and plentiful. That the plates and cutlery were smeared did not register. If the cabbage had hung longer than the game, it mattered not. Ale ran free from flagons carried by buxom wenches and subservient orcs. Away from the scrutiny of Lord Darien, the three men let their manners settle to a natural level.

Pushing back his empty plate, Osric let out a loud belch and rubbed his stomach in contentment. With several pints of the local brew under his belt and a full belly, he and his comrades counted themselves well sated.

After taking a deep quaff of ale, he wiped his chin on his sleeve, nodded at one of the serving girls, and observed, "She's a sight for sore eyes."

"Aye," Ham agreed, licking his finger then dabbing up a few leftover crumbs. "Better to look at than that ugly so-and-so."

His friends followed his gaze to the gnarled figure of an orc who cleared a vacated table. Tom hiccuped in lieu of response.

Osric sneered. "If we have to let the things live, then that's how it should be - them wiping up our mess. Darien's a fool to think any orc's worth more than spit."

"Aye," Ham agreed, as usual.

"I hear you owe your lives to an orc."

Tom, Ham and Osric swivelled round to see who addressed them. A bald, moustached character leant over from an adjoining table, his remarkable eyebrows quivering for a response.

"How do you work that out?" Osric asked angrily.

The eyebrows twitched as if caught between flight and landing. "Beg your pardon. Are you not the men of Lord Darien, here for the trial of that orc?"

Osric scowled. "What if we are?"

The moustache twitched much like the eyebrows had done, in what may have been a fleeting smile. "It's simply a fascinating story. I read books, you see. History is my speciality. We do live in most interesting times, don't you think?" The stranger hunched forward, folding both hands neatly beside his empty plate. "You men are walking participants in history that is being written even now."

Ham and Tom stared woozily, while Osric drew himself up as straight as six pints of ale would allow.

"Well, now -."

Ham ripped an enormous belch, and Osric backhanded him across the chest. "Shut up, fool!" he hissed.

While Ham blinked in confusion, the stranger continued eyes bright with interest. "Rumour has it that all Darien's men would have been charged with murder if that uruk hadn't killed one of your men who had gone mad."

The expression on Osric's face grew even darker. "Grady wasn't mad until we were buried alive with an orc and a witch."

"Aye." Ham nodded at Osric's words.

"_Hiccup!_" said Tom, and nodded also.

The amazing eyebrows leapt as if they might fly off the man's forehead. "Astounding. What a perfectly hideous situation. Is it true the uruk said you would all suffocate?" the stranger ventured.

"It did - that was what made Grady scared." Osric took a swig of ale before explaining, "Then he wanted to kill the uruk to preserve air. There was no law against that then."

"True." Dark brows gathered in sympathy. "Not much different to snuffing out the lanterns." Sighing briefly, the man added, "I do not envy you such a grim experience. I dare say I would not be brave enough to withstand it."

A grin slid across Osric's flushed cheeks, and he slung an elbow into Ham's ribs to make sure his comrade paid attention. "Well, we were orc hunters, see. It takes a particular sort of man to do that kind of work."

"Yes, yes, I can see that." A pale hand briefly stroked the dark moustache, while brows worked in strange patterns of thought. "There was a cave collapse, do I understand correctly? I would imagine that made the situation dire, indeed. It is my observation that the basest nature of man and beast will appear in such moments of crisis, the true character distilled, as it were, and stripped of all pretensions. Undoubtedly the orc resorted to his most bestial instincts as well, did he not?"

Blinking, Osric tried to pick through that deluge of words. "I reckon so."

Sadness bowed the stranger's thin shoulders. "I see. Then your Grady is himself a victim, cast into the darkness together with man's oldest foe."

"Aye..." Osric nodded slowly, eyes fixed past the lantern light. "It got right dark in there. Felt like the walls were closing in."

Wincing in sympathy, the stranger said, "I shudder to imagine. I can almost see it - poor Grady, fearing he might never see the blessed Sun again. He must have acted in sheer desperation, to save his friends and himself."

Ham heaved a great sigh, while Tom slowly shook his head, studying his hands on the table.

"_Hiccup!_" echoed Tom dolefully.

Turning sharp eyes to Osric, the man asked, "So, this poor Landis fellow got in the way, did he? Jumped in between Grady and the uruk at the wrong moment and got skewered by mistake?"

Osric frowned, as if trying to retrieve the memory. "Aye, that's how it happened. The orc scared Grady, making him try to kill it, and Landis just got in the way."

Ham nodded then Tom nodded and puffed his cheeks around a stifled hiccup.

The stranger tugged at his moustache thoughtfully. "What a terrible, tragic blunder. So you are saying the uruk goaded Grady, making him accidentally wound his own friend?"

"Miserable creature - yes, he caused that."

"Seldom have I heard a grimmer tale. I should think Grady was horrified, frozen even."

"Aye. Like time stopped, it was."

Mournfully the man shook his head. "I can picture it so clearly. While Grady stood transfixed at his terrible mistake, the orc took him unaware and killed him."

Simmering anger curled Osric's lips and his knuckles tightened around his tankard. "Aye, it did. Knocked the living daylight out of him. Hit him over and over again."

"Why didn't you stop it?"

Osric blew out a breath and shook his head. "Happened too fast. And we knew that if we killed the uruk, its friends would kill us all. There was a ruddy great, murderous Beorning rampaging outside."

The moustache turned down at the corners. "A terrible dilemma. If you ask me, that wicked uruk just wanted Grady dead at any cost. It almost sounds like it had a grudge against him."

"A grudge?" Osric frowned.

"Why, didn't you say it goaded Grady, daring him to kill it?" The man's eyes narrowed and he raised a sharp finger. "I am only a man of books, but yours is a tale to rouse the meekest soul. Oh, how its black heart must have rejoiced, to know you dared not take your revenge. The rest of you didn't matter, live or die. Perhaps it needed most of you alive to help dig it out."

"Mebbe you're right, come to think of it." Osric emptied his tankard then glared at the orc who refilled it.

As the orc moved away, the stranger shuddered beneath his robes. "I do beg your pardon for calling up such dreadful memories. I fear my passion for knowledge sometimes overcomes my sense of propriety."

Shaking his head, Osric grumbled, "We'll be telling the tale at the trial anyhow, so once more doesn't matter."

Ham hunched over his own drink and remarked, "It all seems so long ago. My memory was a bit hazy. Now I can recall it all as if it were yesterday."

"_Hiccup!_" said Tom, and nodded in agreement.

The stranger stirred, then, and rose to his feet. "Someone should write your dreadful tale one day," he announced, spiky eyebrows fluttering upwards as if leaping to attention. "In the meantime, I am grateful that you were willing to share it with me. Good night, gentlemen."

"Night," mumbled Osric, with Ham echoing.

Tom merely responded, "_Hiccup!_"

"SHADDAP!" Osric and Ham bellowed as one, and Tom jerked upright with eyes popped wide. That, at least, made an end to his hiccups.

Yet as they worked their way into another round of ale, it dawned on no one to question how the stranger knew of Landis. They did not realise they had never spoken their dead comrade's name.

xxx

_October 24th - Northern Ithilien_

"Are you absolutely certain you have everything?" Exasperation thickened Sev's Rohirrim accent, and she frowned as Erin attempted to stuff a jar of marmalade into the already bulging pack sitting beside the main door of The Troll's common room. "You do know you don't have to go with us."

"And leave you to face Lord Valthaur alone? Why I couldn't do that!" was the hobbit's breathless reply as she struggled to hold the pack upright.

"Alone!" Sev pointed out the window to the courtyard, then grabbed the jar and put it into the saddlebags hanging on the chair beside her. "I won't have a moment of solitude for the next week!"

In the yard in front of the inn, a veritable whirlwind of activity took place, saddled horses standing while people milled and bustled about. There two dark heads marked Halbarad's and Anardil's preparations, both tall men dwarfed by Russbeorn's massive frame, while nearby passed silver-haired Celebsul. Far less handsome to the eyes were the remaining three: orcs Gubbitch and Lugbac, and little Nik, the runty Uruk-hai at the centre of it all.

Erin brushed wisps of curls off her face and gave Sev a woebegone look. "Well, if you don't want me to go, I won't. I only meant to help. I mean, you might need someone to talk to."

There was no denying it would be nice to have someone other than men and orcs to talk to, and Erin could certainly be counted on to have more topics of conversation than the approaching trial. Besides, how could she hurt the hobbit's feelings?

"Oh, very well," Sev exclaimed. "Don't blame me if you are bored stiff. Halbarad assures me this will be a very tedious affair."

"That would be a good thing in this case." Erin frowned thoughtfully. "Did I remember to pack the mint tea? I better run and see if there's any in the kitchen."

Stifling the urge to remind the hobbit that a supply of mint tea was easily attainable in Henneth Annûn, Sev slung her saddlebags over one shoulder and hefted Erin's pack to the other. Made lopsided by its weight, she staggered to the door and down the steps. Caranroch gave a long, bubbling snort of equine misery at the sight of the massive bundle.

"Don't complain to me," Sev muttered to the horse, glancing at him while she put her saddlebags on her own mount. "Talk to your mistress. She's the one whose pack is larger than she."

Next, she hoisted the hobbit's pack and heaved it onto Erin's little horse. Grimly she reflected that it was a good thing hobbits were small, as a grown man or woman would never fit on the same horse.

"She quivered her chin at you?" Anardil asked, reaching his hand over her shoulder to steady the pack.

Sev spared him only a fleeting look as she tied the rawhide strings attached to the plump roan's saddle tightly about the bulky bundle.

"No," she replied sharply. "Erin reminded me the unleavened company of males was a fate to be avoided at all costs."

Anardil chuckled and placed his hand on her shoulder. "She will help keep all of our hopes high, Sevi, for there is little that dampens the spirits of a hobbit lass."

"And our spirits need to be raised? Our worthy Captain insists we have nothing to fear." Tipping her head toward the steps where Halbarad was bidding farewell to Bob, his second in charge, she silently dared Anardil to voice his concerns.

"The facts are plain enough and will speak for themselves." When Sev frowned, he shook his head. "Rather than worrying about the hearing, you would be better employed turning your mind to your pet orc. He insists you promised he could come along."

"Lugbac is not my pet, and I made no…" Sev moaned and covered her eyes. "_Nmad_, of all the things for him to remember."

"Did you tell him he might go to the village? After the last incident?"

"It was not all his fault," Sev hissed. "Besides, he paid for the damages himself with the stones he dug from the hills. And yes, before you ask again, I did tell him he might accompany me after the winter wheat was sown."

"Then you needs must go and explain to Gubbitch, so we might get on the road. If we do not arrive before sundown, Tarannon of Henneth Annûn will send someone to look for us, and that I suspect will not set well with Russbeorn."

"No, I dare say not." Sev glanced toward the towering Beorning and the half-sized Uruk-hai. "I will soothe the orcs whilst you assist Celebsul with Russ."

"Are you certain you wouldn't like to exchange chores?" Anardil murmured into her ear.

"Why, sir, bears must certainly fall under the jurisdiction of Rangers." Sev's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.

"A good reason if I ever heard one to be happy I am no longer a Ranger," Anardil grumbled.

She patted his arm in false sympathy and said, "The sooner we sort them out, the sooner we leave. 'Tis the job never started that takes longest to finish."

Tugging futilely at the lower edge of the stiff leather brigandine she wore and pasting a determined smile on her face, Sev strode across the courtyard. There she placed herself between the gnarled Gubbitch and the lumbering Lugbac. Speaking rapidly, she explained to the orc chieftain that she had indeed sworn to allow Lugbac to accompany her to Henneth Annûn after the harvest was completed.

"If tha says so, Mistress, but he's bound to cause havoc."

"I won't. I swears I won't." Lugbac pleaded.

"This is not just a regular trading trip, Lugbac. Do you understand why we're going?"

Lugbac's brow wrinkled, and he replied even more slowly than was his norm. "Cause those there fellers we dug out of mountain are coming back. And we're gonna meet 'em."

"Yes, so you must be on your very best behaviour. Don't touch anything unless you ask Gubbitch or me first."

The enormous orc tucked his hands behind his back and nodded. "I'll remember."

"Good, then go hold Erin's horse while she climbs on."

With a grin that revealed every one of his carefully filed teeth, Lugbac lumbered away.

"'Bout as long as it takes to sneeze is how long he'll remember what tha told him," Gubbitch said sourly. "Thy ought not encourage him. He don't have brains to think by his sen."

"He's never had much call to before now, has he? There's always been someone telling him what to do, controlling him."

"Now, missus, tha just don't understand."

"What should I understand?"

"That no matter all tha fancy words, most orcs won't never gonna amount to much. Too many years following orders to be doing ought else. Lugbac's happier lettin' other folk make decisions."

"How will he know any different unless he's allowed a chance to try?"

"Tha saved his hide last time, tha gonna do it tomorrow? Or next day? No, missus, tha let me deal with him. Keepin' him out o' trouble. Standin' beside him when he causes some. That's my job, so tha King says."

Sev closed her eyes for a moment then nodded, spun on her heel and walked away muttering, "_My_ King! Huh. He's nothing to do with me…"

Nearby, the tiny figure of Nik the Uruk-hai peered up at the tall figures of Anardil and Celebsul the Eldar, and the towering giant, Russbeorn.

"Why can't I ride Warg?"

A chuckle rumbled in Russ' throat. The talking she-warg was as much a wonder of The Burping Troll as the balrog bartender.

Celebsul explained, "Though the people know her well enough by now, it would cause a fuss … an even bigger fuss than we will cause, and goodness knows that will be fuss enough. She wouldn't enjoy it either; town is no place for a warg. Better that she stay here, helping guard the inn."

Seeing the sad frown on Nik's face, Anardil offered some alternatives. "Russ prefers to walk, but you might be better on a pony or riding with one of us."

Nik, however, drew himself up as tall as his stunted physique would allow. "If Russ will walk, then I will walk with him. I'm much stronger than I look, and I never get tired."

A chuckle rumbled in the Beorning's massive chest and his bearded face beamed down proudly. "True. You're as strong as an ox. We can keep pace with horses burdened with riders…" Russ looked across at Caranroch, "and saddlebags weighted with a hobbit's estimation of the necessities of life."

xxx

_Henneth Annûn_

Pausing amidst her collection of dirty tankards, the pretty, redheaded barmaid of The Whistling Dog glanced out the front window. Her mind adrift in other things, she turned away and then abruptly spun back.

"What on earth?"

Looking up from the ledger, which refused to balance, Cameroth asked, "What is it? Not trouble, I hope."

He received no reply; Sira was already headed for the door. The innkeeper hauled himself out of his chair and followed her. In the doorway both stared in amazement.

Down the street rumbled the biggest, most ornate carriage pulled by no less than six almost identical bays. Deep purple feathers plumed on the heads of the horses and at each corner of the coach's roof. Seated high upon the driver's bench, two men in gold-trimmed, purple livery seemed oblivious to the people who rushed out to watch the spectacle go by. The six soldiers riding escort were much more vigilant, peering at the onlookers as if each might be an assassin.

"Well I'll be - did you ever see the like?" Cameroth spoke in tones of disbelief. He scratched his head while the phenomena continued in the direction of the Ranger Station.

Sira folded her arms and muttered sullenly, "No prizes for guessing who's inside."

Sighing, Cameroth nodded slowly. The ordinary peace and quiet of the village of Henneth Annûn was about to be shaken awake.

xxx

Having seen the irritating clerk only briefly this day, Tarannon's spirits verged upon content, which was a heady emotion in the Ranger Captain's limited repertoire. Only one thing marred his mood - the way Khint's moustache twitched with smugness when the small man scuttled past returning from breakfast. Asses should properly be stabled, in the Ranger's opinion, but at least this one he would endeavour to meet as seldom as possible. Nonetheless, the thought of the clerk holed-up in his allotted room with that self-satisfied expression pasted on his face made Tarannon pull at his collar to loosen imaginary tightness.

That pang of sourness fled, however, when the Ranger stepped outside the barracks and felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. Alarmed, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword. Could an army of orcs be approaching? His eyes almost popped out of his head as he saw the vehicle rumbling slowly towards him, purple plumes nodding in the afternoon breeze.

"Oh, my giddy aunt!" he breathed, resorting to his mother's odd retort to unexpected events.

The coach lurched to a halt beside him, the driver cocking his whip to become a haughty statue in his high seat. Tarannon watched while a liveried footman climbed down and opened the gilt-embellished door. From the shadowy interior a thin fellow stepped delicately, suggesting he believed the ground must be strewn with noxiousness.

Nose raised above whatever odour the street seemed to exude, the character drew himself up straight as a rail and tucked his hands in the sleeves of his robe.

Thereupon he peered directly at Tarannon, asking, "Is this the Rangers' headquarters?"

"Yes. It is."

"And you are?"

Feeling his blood beginning to simmer, the Ranger lifted his own nose a fraction. "Captain Tarannon of Henneth Annûn. Who might you be?"

After a clearly audible sniff, the thin man replied, "I am the right-hand of my lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and King's steward, his foremost chamberlain, Willelmus of Emyn Arnen."

Tarannon found himself briefly dazzled as to which designation in that string of titles the newcomer claimed, before the man whipped out a long arm in grand presentation.

"Within this conveyance is the Lord Justice, Valthaur. I am told your full hospitality awaits our convenience. It is my purpose here to ensure Lord Valthaur is catered for in the manner to which he is accustomed."

The last vestiges of his brief contentment crumbled within Tarannon more quickly than if the coach had been an earthquake. He cast a quick look behind him, expecting to see Khint appear. Soldiers he had expected, but how many officials did it take to organise one law lord? Then a massive figure loomed into the carriage doorway, and it seemed a small army might be needed to extract him. The Captain took a step back, instantly recognising authority in that corpulent face.

"Captain," the man wheezed. "I have been on the road too long and require the comfort of a room, good food, and wine, if I am to discharge my services to the King tomorrow."

Finally confronted with a clear superior, Tarannon ducked a terse bow and offered his hand to assist the law lord's alighting. "You are most welcome, sir. Please allow me to show you to your accommodations."

Directly his full attention was seized by the mechanics of helping Lord Valthaur regain his land-legs. This was liable to be a long week indeed.

xxx

TBC ...


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three _October 24th - Henneth Annûn_

As Sev stalked across the stable yard beside him, Anardil hoped she would rein in her frustrations before meeting any member of Alfgard's family. The stable master did not deserve a helping of outrage to follow-up his evening meal.

Indeed, the representative of Sev's Rohirrim family merited a substantial reward for his gracious welcome earlier that day. Going beyond his original offer to provide quarters for Russ and Nik, Alfgard had sent some of his hired men to one of the village inns; thereby making it possible for all of the Burping Troll folk to remain relatively safe from the prying eyes of curious villagers. Even the addition of the hobbit lass, Erin, to the cavalcade did not fluster the man.

"The ladies will sleep in the main house," the lean Rohirrim said with a smile upon their arrival. "Linnet and the girls have scrubbed the bunkhouse down with lye soap but still 'tis not fit for the likes of Sevil and this lively lass."

Erin's answering grin and inquiries regarding the health of Alfgard's large family, as well as the presence of his pleasantly smiling wife, left Sev little room to argue about the arrangements. However, the appearance of Ranger Captain Tarannon with an escort of Guardsmen from the garrison provided ample focus not only for her temper but also for Russ Beorning's as well. The events of moments past still rang in Anardil's ears.

"Is an armed guard entirely necessary?" Sev had snapped.

Undaunted, Tarannon replied, "It is for the witnesses' safety, lady. Your own Captain Halbarad has assured me that this event was foreseen."

"He mentioned Rangers, not great, galloping louts wearing three stones' worth of armour apiece." Her snort punctuated her opinion, before she added tartly, "I trust Lord Darien is equally inconvenienced."

A slight twitch of the cheeks was the only evidence of Tarannon's discomfiture. "Not … precisely, lady. My orders are to secure the - ah, Nik, for his own protection."

When a huge form strode from the stable, every soldier in the detail shrank back, eyes wide as teacups. A rumbling vibrated in Russbeorn's chest as he struck a glowering stance.

"Secure?" he growled. "Say it by its rightful name, captain of Ithilien Rangers. You mean to imprison Nik and deprive him of the freedom you grant to every other innocent creature. Or is his innocence declared null by some presumed power of yours?"

Before the big man's deep stare, the Adam's apple leapt up and down Tarannon's throat. "I am only following orders, ah…"

The Ranger suddenly realised he knew no proper title or form of address for Beornings, and Russ leapt into the breach.

"What justice is this," the big man thundered, "when an honoured oath is met with the threat of swords? Nik's word was enough to keep him free; is that word worth less now that he has fulfilled it?"

Another figure appeared in the stable doorway, and conversation stalled as several other sets of eyes widened. Though cast in the dark, forbidding mould of all his kind, Nik's wiry frame stood at barely half-size, and his rough features displayed surprisingly innocent puzzlement. Russ cast a quick glance over his shoulder to where the diminutive Uruk-hai stood listening. Thereupon his rumbling growl returned the soldiers' focus to the far more intimidating man confronting them.

Gamely, Tarannon struggled on. "That is not the point, Master Beorning. Your … friend's safety is in question, and we cannot guarantee that unless he is in our care and keeping."

Again the subterranean rumble, ere Russ spoke again. "Safety? How can you claim that guarantee for any man or beast? Can you swear that tomorrow your blacksmith will not slay the miller, or that the tanner will not rob the baker? I say to you that the safety of your keeping is the safety of a fish in a net."

"Teach?" Nik broke his silence to call out hesitantly to his 'teacher'. "Is something wrong?"

"'Tis naught but the folly of fools," Russ grumbled.

"But why do they want to lock me up? Didn't I do the right thing?"

The Beorning's deep-set eyes glittered as he replied, "Yes, Nik, you did. But the justice of Men is evidently a fickle thing."

"I give you my word," Tarannon doggedly insisted. "Nik will come to no harm. These men are honourable and sworn to the service of the king."

However, Russ slowly shook his heavy head. "The repentant are long since healed of their regret, and they might even rue their promises, now. I trust no Man to stand between Nik and the human foe who might seek his life."

"I merely follow orders. Given the volatile nature of the case and its possible testimony, Nik might be subject to reprisal."

Russ straightened and crossed his great arms across his chest. "Will you also incarcerate this Lord Darien and his followers? As witnesses, I presume they share Nik's peril."

In growing desperation, Tarannon glanced about the yard, eyes lighting on the approach of Halbarad, Celebsul and the stable yard's master. "Ah … those are not my orders. I'm -."

"You will take Nik into custody," the Beorning announced, "when I see Lord Darien and his men locked in the same cell. Is your King just, or is he not?"

He slowly turned his head and nodded once at the Uruk-hai. Nik grinned in childlike relief, clearly trusting his giant friend to speedily resolve the situation. Meanwhile Tarannon bent his head and pinched his nose as if battling a headache.

Recalling the confrontation, Anardil silently admitted Hal, Cel and Alfgard possessed levels of diplomacy he would never achieve. Thankfully, the niceties of protocol and polite discourse were seldom necessary in the course of his current duties to the King, which ostensibly consisted of hunting out those who walked the shadows and plotted evil against the citizens of Gondor.

While allowing Sev to further confront the taciturn Captain might have been enjoyable to watch, it would have resulted in only more ill will. In the event, Celebsul stepped between Tarannon and Russ, eyebrows raised in mild disapproval, and suggested a consultation between Captains. Halbarad heartily concurred, Alfgard offered a room, and the two senior Rangers withdrew to discuss alternatives. Russ meanwhile took up his own station, a giant, brooding form that stared back at the soldiers warily eyeing him.

Pursuing his contemplation as he and Sev neared the house, however, Anardil frowned. Something about the situation did not ring true. Tarannon did not like orcs, but he held to the letter of the laws he was sworn to uphold. If he truly believed Nik should be taken into custody, nothing Halbarad or Celebsul said would have changed the man's mind. And to arrive with an escort of the Guard rather than Rangers was also out of character.

Who or what had forced Tarannon to this course of action? And what consequences would the Captain face for allowing himself to be convinced that leaving a guard upon the perimeter of the stable yard was sufficient? Especially in the face of Alfgard's setting of a guard of his own to ensure that his guests remained undisturbed.

With a slight shake of his head, Anardil focused his attentions once more upon Sev, for the door to the main house stood before them. While she accepted the fact that her presence in Henneth Annûn attracted undue attentions, she could not pretend to enjoy it. Nor did she shy from letting him know her opinion of his plan to make a quiet trip to The Black Cauldron.

"Quiet," she snorted with asperity. "Slinking off in the shadows again. Why do men find such delight in playing games?"

"Games?"

Waving a hand toward the gate where a helmeted Gondorian guard stood facing a sturdy Rohirrim leaning nonchalantly upon a tall spear, she declared, "What else would you call it?"

Studying the sons of Gondor and Rohan as they bemusedly eyed each other, Anardil's crooked grin appeared. "Perhaps games they are, that even kings may play. But I, my dear, am best at shadows and slinking, as you well know. Think where you found me!"

Sev tipped her head and gave him a narrow eyed look before replying, "Surely you recall what I was doing in that alley." With a toss of her head, she stormed away.

As the door closed with a solid thud, Anardil expelled a pent up breath and muttered ruefully, "Yes, there is that to consider."

A woman willing to confront the river pirates of Pelargir in hopes of discovering information about missing kin was unlikely to retire quietly to her room. Especially if she imagined he was in the slightest bit of danger.

Only by the strongest force of will did Anardil keep himself from jumping when two voices spoke from the shadowed doorway of the barn.

"Go, my friend, we will watch over her."

"Aye, go ask tha questions."

Facing the unlikely duo of crooked orc and graceful elf, Anardil covered his fleeting sense of irritation at being overheard with a nod. "I'll not be long."

Gubbitch gave a sharp-toothed smile and jerked a thumb toward the Gondorian sentry. "Not long at all if tha's caught out by one of them lads."

"I believe I'll manage."

After a quick salute, Anardil stepped into the barn and walked rapidly toward the opposite pair of doors. A moment of listening to the new-fallen night revealed the locations of the three men Tarannon had placed along the perimeter and their Rohirrim counterparts. Two of the former chatted in low tones about a mother-in-law; the others clearly held no anticipation of real trouble.

With a private smile, he crept into the blue-dark shadows and made his way across the large field Alfgard used for training his sons and stable hands in the art of war a-horse. Slipping through the rail fence and into the woods at the eastern end of the meadow, Anardil waited silently for any sign of discovery. When there was no indication that either of the two sides realised the perimeter had been breached, he continued through the black trees until he reached the main road.

xxx

Fists clenched Sev leaned back against the door she had so carefully closed and considered the possible effects of allowing her emotions to overcome practicality. Following the man would serve no purpose, nor would pacing about the now-dark yard where her distress would be visible to all. And a quick inventory of the guestroom provided her with nothing suitable for throwing in a fit of temper. Idly she wondered if Alfgard removed all the breakables in expectation of just such an occurrence.

"What cannot be cured must simply be endured," Sev muttered, and collapsed backwards across the width of the bed to stare resentfully up at the ceiling. "Though if he thinks he will continue to leave me behind to worry and wait, he is sadly mistaken."

Occupied with organising the arguments she would present to Anardil, Sev disregarded the tapping upon the door until a familiar voice called, "Sevi? Are you in there?"

"Yes, Erin, come in."

The hobbit peered around the door, and then plastered a quick smile on her face as she came in and closed it behind her. Sev shook her head.

"You don't have to knock, you know; it's your room too."

Hopping onto the bed, Erin said, "Oh, I know. But sometimes you need to be alone."

Sev gave the hobbit a sidelong look. "Which one of them sent you to fetch me?"

Erin grinned. "Celebsul."

"And what diversion has the elf devised?"

"He says he has remembered a card game with unusual stakes." She bounced in her seat, smiling brightly. "Whoever loses a turn must tell a short story. He says games like this might actually last a good deal of the night."

With a snort, Sev replied, "Why am I not surprised? I presume he brought the cards?"

"Actually, Alfgard's stable hands had them, but when they saw Cel watching them play another game, they got all stuttery and nearly fell over themselves to let him have them."

Laughing in spite of herself, given the visual of young Rohirrim hands meeting a genuine ten thousand-year-old elf, Sev rolled to a sitting position.

"Very well, let us go find him."

xxx

Emerging from the brush to amble toward the turn-off for the village, Anardil adopted a persona he had used before when visiting The Black Cauldron, a riverman reduced by the loss of his arm to wandering the roads. Wryly, he considered it was only because far too many men had suffered fates similar to his own that the absence of an arm seldom proved a deterrent to remaining anonymous. A twist of his hair into a queue at his neck, an adopted slouch and sullenness of face, and he became just another unfortunate soul.

A far greater hindrance to his ability to remain in the shadows was his lady's much bemoaned notoriety. Through his connection with Sev, several of the villagers recognised him on sight and would not be fooled by the simple disguises presently available to him. Ah well, 'twas a small price to pay for her company; and upon the completion of Nik's hearing, it was to be hoped that Sev's reputation would once again fade to just that of a travelling herbalist and occasional trader.

With the skills honed over years of moving unseen through enemy territory, Anardil walked along hidden ways leading to the village centre. From the doorway of The Whistling Dog bright light spilled out along with raucous laughter. Alfgard's men and those Rangers evicted from their quarters by the arrival of Lord Valthaur were making the most of their evening. Stepping around a muddy patch to the other side of the road, Anardil spared a glance upwards. Somewhere within the building were Lord Darien and a portion of his men. The Gondorian lord was no doubt as furious as Sevilodorf at Captain Tarannon's order for the two parties to remain separated until the commencement of the hearing on the morrow. But it was not with Darien that Anardil's business lay.

Located along the stream the villagers liked to think of as a river, The Black Cauldron contrasted starkly with The Whistling Dog. It was a tavern of the sort all too familiar to Anardil. No matter whether the river city of Pelargir or the dark alleys of distant Umbar, there would be a ramshackle building where those who favoured the underbelly of society gathered. Such places always swam with drink - not the highest quality but plentiful and cheap - and women of likewise characteristics. The men who frequented such establishments seldom looked closely at their neighbours.

Thus if a man were willing to sit quietly in a smoky corner and sip his ale without drawing attention to himself, it was possible to remain observant but unnoticed for quite some time. Long enough, at any rate, for Anardil to determine two facts: the local brew tasted muddy and he was not the only watcher. That hulking other he noted through narrowed eyes, but only with the interest a tired old soldier would be expected to display.

A trio of men, members of Darien's entourage according to their raucous exchanges, exited from the tavern. The misshapen observer followed just moments later. Such a coincidence coiled uncomfortably in Anardil's guts. He mulled over the possible implications while finishing his ale, but without arriving at any conclusions. Signalling the buxom barmaid, he held up two copper coins and watched with an appreciative leer as she slid them into her bodice.

In the broad, growling accents of Cair Andros, he asked, "Where's that big orc that used to work here? Me boss had a job for him and his boys."

"Lorgarth?" the blond replied, swiping at a small pool of ale with the edge of her skirt. "He's out back. Want I should fetch him for you?"

"Won't be necessary; need to take a little walk that way meself."

With a shrug that caused her chemise to slip down and expose a smooth white shoulder, the barmaid gathered up Anardil's empty mug and returned to the bar.

xxx

A gibbous moon lit the back road that separated the village from the woodland. Sira sauntered in the shadow of overhanging trees, a smile playing upon her lips. They had only managed a few moments together, she and her latest beau, but such wonderful moments, snatched in a brief break from work. The couple met in a secluded spot equidistant from their places of employment; he obliged to cook and wash up each evening at the garrison while Sira served customers at The Whistling Dog. On days off, they spent every moment together, but neither could bear to go for a week without seeing each other. Thus, every night, he and she would escape for a half-hour to share soft words and sweet kisses.

Sira shook her head and smiled even more. What did she see in him? He would never win the wealth she craved, nor make her into a fine lady. He wasn't even all that clever, but very handsome and strong, and so romantic. Looking down at her lace gloves, she recalled how he kissed her hands and told her the scars did not matter, insisting she was beautiful, brave and the most desirable woman in the world. Nor would he do more than kiss and cuddle her. "In time," he said when she melded into his arms, and she knew he meant to marry her.

Realising she would be late back at the tavern if she didn't pick up her pace, Sira looked to see how far along the road she had progressed. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a shambling figure heading into the trees ahead: an orc. Almost certainly one of the domesticated creatures employed in town, but she could not risk it seeing her. Sidling into deeper shadow, Sira listened to the rustle of heavy feet on fallen leaves. To her horror, while the orc moved deeper into the wood, it's progress also angled in her direction on some hidden path slanting away from the road.

"There you are at last."

Agonising chill clutched Sira's heart at the sound of that voice, and she sank to her knees. It couldn't be. It must be someone who sounded like him. It mustn't be him. It must not be Margul.

The orc murmured unintelligibly and the man responded in a lowered voice. It couldn't be Margul. Sira ought to just ignore the exchange, creep quietly away, and forget about it.

But what if it was Margul?

What if he had returned to wreak revenge on her for thwarting his plan to ruin the proceedings in Minas Tirith? In his twisted mind he might well think Sira should have simply allowed his orcs to kill her and throw her head over the city walls - final proof of the inability of orcs and men to co-exist. Hadn't he murdered his own ally, the repulsive Minna, for her part in that failure? Sira's hands stung as she recalled the desperate act of scooping up burning embers from the campfire to throw into the face of the woman who held her captive.

Cringing fear settled deep in the pit of Sira's stomach, yet something akin to steel straightened her spine; she silently rose to her feet and peered into the woods. From her vantage of darkness, the moonlight spilling in the grove seemed bright as day, the figures easy to discern despite the distance. A sigh of relief slipped from her lips when she focussed on the untidy, bearded man. Not Margul, not the clean-shaven dandy who once courted her. Yet he walked in circles while he talked, straight-backed, with an arrogant tilt to his head. Then the moon flashed in his eyes: pale, silver-green, and Sira sank to her knees once more.

xxx

After the taproom's closeness, Anardil welcomed the coolness of the outdoors. Nonetheless, a strong odour, coming from the direction of the privy, marred the fresh air, and the guttural tones of orcish voices broke the silence of night.

"Crimp that nail down, Corbat, then leave it for now. Whole thing will have to be replaced in the morning."

"Aye, boss."

"I'll leave you to it. Be sure to wash yourself before you come back inside."

Corbat gave a grunt of agreement and muttered a reply in an Orcish tongue that set the taller orc to laughing.

"Course he would, but we don't want to have to dig another privy." Giving the smaller orc a solid thump on the shoulder, the other turned and looked directly into the shadows where Anardil stood. "Especially since there's going be some excitement in town for the next few days."

With a wink, the orc pointed away from the tavern toward a collection of huts poised haphazardly upon the riverbank. After a casual glance toward the rear door, Anardil nodded, and allowed himself to be led into the largest of the huts. Concerted effort masked the tightening between his shoulders as he stepped into that confined space, and lamplight clearly revealed the shambling, misshapen bulk of his former foe. However, though certainly not up to a hobbit's standards of cleanliness, the interior of the crudely furnished hut was far neater than the ex-Ranger had expected.

"It is hoped that boredom is the order of the day rather than excitement, Lorgarth," Anardil murmured.

The orc closed the door and jerked a thumb towards a one-armed chair. The irony of a maimed chair for a disfigured man was clearly noted in the orc's hideous grin.

"Aye, but hardly likely seeing your woman's involved. She draws trouble like a privy draws flies."

"Not an extremely elegant image, but undeniably accurate." Anardil lowered himself to his seat - carefully, lest the chair conceal other wounds - and met the orc's yellow gaze steadily. "Meanwhile, what have you to report?"

Lorgarth frowned and drew a bottle from beneath a lumpy straw-filled mattress. While pondering his thoughts, he took a tin cup from its place on the water bucket beside the door. Filling the cup, he offered the amber liquid to Anardil.

"Lots of strangers coming to town for this hearing. Most of 'em expecting it will go the way of all the rest. Orc guilty. Some think this one might be different." Lorgarth's eyes gleamed. "Heard about Lord Valthaur the other day - that was a right shock. You never mentioned him when you asked me to keep an eye on things."

Accepting the battered cup, Anardil shrugged, and regarded the orc in silence.

After a gurgling chuckle, Lorgarth took a swig from the bottle. "Course I didn't need to know that to watch the farmer's boy and the barmaid."

Without blinking, Anardil sniffed then sipped carefully at the liquid in his cup. His eyebrows climbed in pleased surprise. Better by far than anything The Black Cauldron had on its shelves.

Bottle dangling in one gnarled paw, Lorgarth continued, "Girl's got a new man. Always sneaking off to meet him in the woods on the west end of town."

"Who is he?"

"New recruit at the garrison. Been around for a month or two. Started walking out with your barmaid a few weeks ago."

"She is not my barmaid."

The quiet response brought a guffaw from Lorgarth. "No, reckon she's not. Your missus and her knives would settle that one right quick, if'n that lass ever turned her eyes on you."

Anardil allowed a small smile to flicker across his face before asking, "And the boy?"

"Now, that's an interesting one. Got himself a friend too. A bit peculiar there."

"And why is that?"

"Cause it's one of my lads. Name of Odbut. Wandered in from the hills just afore summer. Nothing but skin and bones, at first."

The former Ranger's eyes widened at this. An unexpected turn indeed, for Margul's former spy and errand boy to suddenly welcome association with the orcish race. While Cullen doubtless struggled to retain an original thought, he had previously managed to be quite vehement in his opposition to any favours for orc-kind. Margul's own motivations remained a mystery, but clearly, he had made quite an impression on the callow youth.

Anardil did not attempt to conceal his dislike or disbelief as he asked, "Cullen is befriending an orc?"

"Aye, leastways they talk. Not here, of course. Tiroc told the boy to keep away from here, and the lad's following his dad's orders."

"So where do they meet?"

"Now there's another peculiar part. If'n you can believe it, they go fishing together."

Anardil's knew his expression must somehow mirror that of the being opposite - he found the story as incredulous as Lorgarth apparently did, though he harboured no doubt regarding its truth. "And what does this Odbut look like?"

"You saw him, inside tonight. Big ugly fellow picking up after you lot."

Anardil blinked. "I believe we've found another peculiar thing about your new lad. He's watching Lord Darien's men."

The black lips curled around a sneer. "He's not the only one. That Osric makes a right fool of himself."

Swirling the remaining whiskey in his cup, Anardil waited for the orc to continue. Lorgarth idly turned the bottle between his fingers, then obliged.

"One of the strangers - fellow with spiky eyebrows and hair on his lip - clerk or some such to that law lord - was talking to them last night."

Drawing his brows together, Anardil considered possible reasons for Valthaur's clerk to be interested in Lord Darien's men. Likely the corpulent justice wanted to know in advance the sort of people and attitudes he would be working with. But the hour grew late, so Anardil filed the information for future consideration.

"Anything else of interest?"

Yellow eyes narrowed over a leering grin. "Not unless you're wanting to hear the story about Corbat and the privy."

"No, I believe I'll pass on that tale." Anardil allowed a grin to stretch across his face. "His idea of dropping the tavern-keeper in and nailing the door shut is scarcely original."

"Understood that did ya?" Lorgarth chuckled, "No one's ever gonna accuse Corbat of smart thinking, but he does right well when he's got someone to tell him what to do."

Thinking of the lumbering Lugbac, Anardil answered, "True for many of your folk."

"Aye, that's what makes it so important for them to choose the right master."

Anardil bent to set his empty cup down with a metallic clink, watching his strange host's expression. "Are you the master of your new lad? Or does another hold his allegiance?"

No man could read what lay behind an orc's eyes, particularly when he no longer felt forthcoming. "He follows my orders, or I'll know why not."

"Did you set him to trailing Lord Darien's men?"

"Trailing? No."

"He left on their heels tonight."

Lorgarth muttered in a guttural tongue then said, "He's slipped off afore. Not give it much thought. Most of the boys have a hard time dealing with you tarks. Safer for them to take a run through the woods than to risk losing control."

Anardil sensed that this last was at least a partial untruth. Yet he knew from the set look upon Lorgarth's twisted face there was nothing he had time to say or do that would convince the orc to tell him more about the mysterious Odbut.

He rose, leaving the cup beside his chair. "And do you sometimes take a little run, Lorgarth?"

Eyes glittering in the lamplight, the orc briefly exposed jagged teeth. "I got more patience than some."

Not quite foes and yet not entirely allies, the pair exchanged wry glances and let their odd interview end. With a nod of farewell, Anardil walked out into the night. No sooner did the door thud shut behind him than he inhaled a great, rib-spreading breath, and looked up to the first stars twinkling cleanly through a net of limbs and leaves.

"Ah, me," he sighed as he settled into his long stride. But if he had any further thoughts, he let them pass unvoiced even to himself.

Back down the narrow ways he trod, pausing once to the patter of swift footsteps. Sinking into shadow, he watched while a feminine form flew from the darkness and sped towards the welcoming lights of The Whistling Dog as if the hounds of Mordor were at her heels. Yet when the door swung open, light within revealed Sira's face, and Anardil quirked a wry grin. Undoubtedly the lass had overstayed her latest tryst, and feared Cameroth's wrath for tardiness.

A few paces more and the amber square of a wide window caught his eye. Through the mullioned panes he had a narrow view of the inn's common room, warmly lit and welcoming. Near the hearth two labourers bent their heads together over pints of ale, while the innkeeper, Cameroth, passed through an inner doorway and out of sight.

Then Anardil paused, his attention fixing on a solitary figure sitting in the middle of the room. Dressed in a farm hand's neat but simple clothes, Anardil recognised the youth. Cullen, son of Tiroc, seemed to have strayed from his evening chores, and the former Ranger's thoughts leapt back to his conversation with Lorgarth.

Why would the farmer's son make the odd switch from Margul's lackey, complete with spurious airs and overpriced clothes, to befriending an orc? Why would that same orc be set to watch Darien's men - and by whom? Upon being caught out as Margul's spy, what little spine Cullen possessed had instantly dissolved. Yet even then he had been unable to tell his master's intent or motivations, and appeared only too grateful to return home to his parents' farm.

Frowning, Anardil vaguely recalled that Cullen's father at one time employed an orc as a farm labourer - that orc subsequently killed by Darien's hunters. Perhaps the strange association between Cullen and Odbut now was mere coincidence, even a grim curiosity on Cullen's part to more closely examine the orcish race. At this point, the only connection Anardil could find was that an orc he spied shadowing Darien's men tonight had an alleged, if odd, friendship with Margul's former errand boy. What that might bode was a thought best left for later examination, when more details came to light.

Whatever the case, at least Cullen appeared to have foresworn his unsavoury patronage of The Black Cauldron, and Cameroth would doubtless keep an eye on the lad. With a mental shrug Anardil moved on, hastening towards rest and his waiting lady.

xxx

After collecting the dozens of empty tankards that had accumulated in her absence, Sira found time to sit alongside Cullen and hiss at him, "Margul's back."

For a moment, the youth did not react. No doubt more than a little drunk, he turned his head slowly and attempted to focus on the barmaid's face. "What?"

Sira resisted the urge to scream, but her hiss grew more intense. "Margul! Margul is here, in the town, in disguise."

Colour and stupor drained slowly from Cullen's face to be replaced by wide-eyed shock. "In disguise? You sure it was him?"

"Yesss. I heard his voice, saw his eyes. He may have grown his hair and a beard, but there is no mistaking him. He was talking to that orc that you're so friendly with."

"Odbut? He's harmless - just a dumb orc who knows how to catch fish. Taught me how to tickle trout. I've been making extra money by selling our catches. What would Margul be talking to him for?"

Frowning, the barmaid ducked her head and spoke as if to herself. "Odbut … Odbut?"

Then memory flooded back.

Sira bound hand and foot, facing Minna across a campfire, asking if the terrible woman intended to kill her. What had Minna replied? Something about: "Not me - I'm waiting for Odbut and Margul's other lads."

"Oh my…" Sira breathed out in disbelief. Then she grabbed Cullen by the collar. "Why didn't you tell me it was called Odbut?"

"You never asked, ruddy heck. What does it matter?" The lad pulled back forcing Sira's hand to drop. "I said: he's just a dumb orc."

"Oh no, he's not!" Heads turned at Sira's raised voice. She schooled herself and spoke quietly through her teeth. "He's Margul's chief assassin."

Cullen's eyes lost focus again. "How do you work that out?"

"Because Minna told me. Remember Minna?" Seeing Cullen's face crumple, Sira continued. "She said this Odbut would come and kill me, then pay other orcs to toss my head over the walls of Minas Tirith. And remember the intended victim had been you - you Cullen, not me. I was there because you didn't dare meet Minna again. I was doing YOU a favour."

"It could be a different Odbut." The youth clutched at straws.

"Talking to Margul in the woods at night? Sober up, fool - we need to decide what to do. Margul killed Minna. He probably wants us both dead too."

Shaking his head, Cullen spoke his confused thoughts aloud. "If Odbut's Margul's assassin, and if Margul wants us dead, why are we still alive? Odbut's had all sorts of chances to kill me. If Margul's here for anything, it'll be to see what happens at the hearing tomorrow … yes, that's it. Nothing to do with me and you."

Sira mulled this over for a moment. It did make sense. If Odbut had been here for weeks, then Margul could have been as well. Maybe his interest did centre on the hearing. He hated the idea of justice for orcs because that might deprive him of his mercenaries - creatures desperate to make a way in life by any means they could.

But why had the orc befriended Cullen?

"We have to tell someone."

"No!" the youth shot back instantly.

"Why?" It made no sense to Sira. "We can get Margul and Odbut arrested, then we'll be safe."

Tears of desperate anxiety appeared in Cullen's eyes. "No we won't. If we make any more trouble for Margul than we already have, we're sure to be murdered."

"Who by, with those two locked up safe and sound?"

Eyelids closing in pain, a teardrop ran down the youth's cheeks. "You don't understand the friends he has. Friends we can't hope to accuse. People who could crush us like beetles."

Appalled at the fear now shaking through the youth, fear of something more terrible than Margul, Sira asked, "What friends?"

"I can't tell you. You're better off not knowing, believe me. But they are here, Sira, in this town. Just keep quiet, lay low and trust nobody. Do you understand? Trust nobody, not even them that you think you can most trust."

Clambering to his feet, Cullen shook off Sira's restraining hand and fled from the inn. The barmaid stared vacantly, pondering his words. Could there really be people in Henneth Annûn who were in league with Margul? Were there those amongst whom she most trusted who would kill her? Was Margul here only to disrupt the hearing in some way, and if so, should she risk her life to expose him?

The memory of burning ached in Sira's hands and her thoughts swirled wildly. Around her, the tavern gradually emptied with customers heading home to their beds. She stood up automatically, and began collecting empty tankards.

xxx

TBC ...


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four 

_October 25 – Henneth Annûn_

Boots in hand, Sev glanced back toward the bed before easing the guest chamber door closed. A mop of curls above a blanket cocoon was all to be seen of Erin. Undoubtedly the hobbit would rise soon in answer to the aromas beginning to emerge from the kitchen; but for now, best to let her dream. In spite of Halbarad's assurances that the hearing would be a simple matter, Sev fully expected the day to be wearing on all of them.

Determined to avoid civilised conversation for at least half an hour, she walked quietly across the passageway, past the kitchen and out the door leading to the yard. On the step, she paused to pull on her boots and frown at the tall figures blocking her path to the lane. A solitary ride or stroll to the village being out of the question, she turned toward the barn. The men and lads there should be too busy with morning chores to engage in polite exchanges.

Within the barn, the familiar warm odours of horse and hay embraced her, together with the comfortably rhythmic grinding of animals munching their grain. Every so often, a dusty sneeze broke the quiet, and as she passed the stalls, long tails idly twitched in contentment. Occasional scuffles and clanks marked the stable boys at their work, mucking out stalls, raking the aisle, or grooming the horses that would be worked that day.

Alfgard had also set two of the boys to brushing the horses belonging to Sev's party, assuring that the last trace of sweat and road-grime was curried away, leaving hides that gleamed with a satin sheen. A thump and muffled yelp, however, hastened Sev's pace towards Biscuit's stall. There she found a wiry lad pinned to the wall by Biscuit's heavy hip, while the old horse obliviously crunched his grain.

"Get - _oof _- OFF me!" the boy gasped, but shove though he might, the big grey merely leaned his weight more firmly. "Mistress - Sevil - help!"

"Biscuit, for shame!" Sev exclaimed, fetching her horse a smart slap to the rump. With a longsuffering snort, Biscuit stepped aside and the boy scrambled out into the aisle. Trying not to smile, she added, "I'll finish with him, lad, if you'll let me have the brush."

"Thank you, Mistress Sevil," the boy sighed. "I thought Master Alfgard would find me still mashed there at lunch time! Wicked old thing, if you don't mind my saying so."

Chuckling softly, Sev took up grooming where the boy left off, briskly scrubbing away the last flecks of dirt. She briefly wondered why Alfgard himself did not appear to oversee the morning chores, but soon lost herself in the homely task that occupied her hands. When done, she peered over the stall to assure herself that the boys were busy with other things, and then slipped one of last night's raisin rolls from her pocket. Immediately Biscuit bent his big head towards her, and his rubbery lips smacked as he eagerly took the treat.

"Now, missus, you shouldn't cater to his whims."

The rolling accents of Rohan softened the rebuke, so Sev responded to the bow-legged ancient with a laughing, "He's earned a bit of pampering, don't you think, Raberlon? Almost twenty years of devotion to the family must be worth something."

"Wouldn't know about that." The man's grey hair swung down to cover his face when he tipped a measure of oats into Biscuit's manger. "Swore my oath nigh on sixty years ago, and I don't see that it's brought me the amount of attention you and those pet orcs of yours are giving that beast."

Sev's jaw tightened as the morning's brilliance dimmed. Mindful of Raberlon's long service to the family, she strove to maintain her hold upon her temper and counted backwards from twenty before saying, "They are not pets, but free people under the law."

Raberlon snorted. "Yer can call a duck a swan, missus, but it's still a duck. And don't yer go stickin' yer nose in the air at me. Ain't saying they ain't people. Just saying that big one trails along behind yer, and that little one does the same with that giant. Like a pair of lap dogs, they are."

"Lap dogs?" Sev repeated with a hint of iron.

"Aye, though mebbe more handy. Found 'em this morning polishing up yer saddle and that of yer man's. So shiny I swear I can see my face in the leather." Raberlon gave Biscuit's shoulder a solid thump. "Little one even took it into his head to put a plaster on Alfgard's mare."

"He what?" Knowing the value the stable master placed on his breeding stock, Sev had immediate images of those blasted Gondorian guards being forced to protect the little uruk from his host.

"Set a plaster on her foreleg. Said he heard her pacing about last night and found the heat in her leg. Told some tale of that big hairy fellow teaching him how to do it." Raberlon shook his head. "Fancy an orc learnin' anything useful."

"Yes, fancy that," Sev replied faintly. "What did Alfgard have to say about it?"

Raberlon rubbed at his scraggly beard. "Well now, we all expected to see the master do a right fine imitation of Mount Doom; but he's using company manners and just got a bit pokery."

Sev winced. "Where is he now?"

"The master?" Raberlon frowned. "Last I seen, the three of them were on their way to the second pasture."

"Which three?"

The old man flapped a reassuring hand. "Not the big one. Don't want a repeat of that episode with the pigs. We got him out back stacking grain bags. He insisted on helping, and his boss said he'd best stay away from the mares."

Blessing Gubbitch for channelling Lugbac's desire to prove his usefulness into a relatively safe occupation, Sev asked, "So it's Nik and Russ with Alfgard?"

"What I said, isn't it?" Raberlon answered querulously. "Been out there a bit. Saw yer man go haring off after them while I was fetching the oats."

There was a thought to give one pause: Anardil stepping into a potential explosion between a ferociously private Beorning and a horse-proud Rohirrim.

"Thank you, Raberlon," Sev said, and walked out of the barn, suppressing the urge to run.

What she found proved far different than she feared. True, Alfgard stood frowning with his arms crossed on his chest, one hand stroking his bearded chin. However, Russbeorn rocked on his heels placidly watching while Nik guided a docile grey horse by its lead rope. The horse, she realised in surprise, was Anardil's own gelding, Gomelfaex, which she had given him not long ago. Anardil himself mirrored Alfgard's pose as well as a one-armed man could, and nodded silently to Sev's arrival.

"Teach told me it's not just looking, it's listening, too," Nik said, turning to watch the horse plod behind him. "An animal that is well walks the same with all four feet, at least when it's on flat ground. See, listen to Gomel."

Thud-thud, thud-thud. The steady pace continued, and Nik looked up, grinning. "But your mare wasn't walking with the same beat on all four. One of her steps kept dragging, sort of, as if her foot was too heavy. So…" He shrugged one knotty shoulder. "I made her a plaster like Teach showed me."

Abruptly the little uruk halted, gazing at the stern Rohirrim in disconcertion. "She is better this morning, isn't she?"

"Aye." Alfgard let his hand drop and nodded grudgingly. "That she is. The dressing was as good as any I'd have done."

Russ continued rocking, and a faint rumble that might have been humming echoed in his great chest. Nik grinned broadly once more, a most peculiarly cheerful expression for so ugly a face.

"Thank you, Master Alfgard!" he said happily.

Then he walked the grey to Anardil and held out the lead rope. "Thank you for letting me show things with your horse. He's a very nice fellow, just like Teach said he would be."

"Yes," Anardil replied bemusedly, and slipped the rope from the horse's neck to pat the animal fondly. "Though I suspect Russbeorn could charm any creature on earth, if he can convince a Rohirrim warhorse to let an uruk - even a little one - put him through his paces."

"No need for charms," rumbled Russ. "Good beasts know creatures of good heart when they meet."

Nik reached up to mimic Anardil's caress, and Gomel stood drowsily beneath the touch. "I think all horses are good beasts. I like how big and warm they are, so strong but willing to work for us, just because we're kind to them."

"Not all horses are kind," Alfgard corrected. "Any more than all men are. One must be on their guard when meeting those unknown to them."

Pausing, Nik looked up at the Rohirrim, and his brow furrowed with thought. "But … if a horse is unkind, then someone must have taught him to be that way. Don't you think so? I don't think a horse wants to be mean, unless someone made him that way."

For an instant Alfgard simply stared at the little orc, his blue eyes opaque as twin shards of sky. Then he, in turn, looked up to meet Russbeorn's deep gaze and after an instant shook his greying head.

"Men live their entire lives and never learn that," he said.

A twinkle in Russ' eyes formed the Beorning's only reply, but once again, Nik grinned from ear to ear. He patted Gomel's shoulder as if greeting an old friend.

"You are lucky to have him to ride, Master Anardil." Casting a quick glance at the former Ranger's face, he added, "There were no horses at Isengard, of course, but I used to wish I was big enough to be a warg rider."

"Did you?" Anardil asked softly. "Did you wish to go to war?"

Sev sincerely contemplated stomping the man's foot, but Nik answered with a quick shake of his head. "No, it wasn't that. It was … it just seemed that if someone could ride, they would be free."

"Free from what?"

Misshapen dark fingers pulled imaginary tangles from the grey gelding's mane. Nik looked only at the strands slipping through his hand.

"I'm not sure," he answered quietly. "Maybe just free from who I was."

Sev could not read the look on Anardil's face, the grey eyes shuttered and his features still. The emptiness of his pinned-up left sleeve abruptly seemed to shout a thousand bitter memories of war.

But then Anardil slipped the lead rope back over Gomel's head and about the horse's neck, and flipped a smaller loop around the horse's nose to create a crude halter. He held the trailing end of the rope out to Nik.

"If Russ can convince this beast to bear you, then you may ride. Use Alfgard's training field, there; Gomel will stay in that area."

Before Nik could stammer a thank you, Anardil faced about and marched away. In his wake, two stunned Rohirrim, an amused Beorning, and one delighted Uruk-hai watched him go.

Stepping closer to the horse, Russ spoke softly. The gelding's attention fixed upon the towering man, and then it whinnied quietly, snorting a time or two.

Alfgard's eyes narrowed at the exchange, and in jest, he asked, "What did Gomel say?"

"That Nik smells more like grass than blood, that his hands are warm and gentle…" Then the Beorning grinned widely. "And that Gomel would much rather Nik rode him than I."

Choking upon a cough of mirth, Alfgard creased at the waist. Fortunately, the quick reach of Nik's hand stopped Russ from patting the Rohirrim's back, a remedy that would have undoubtedly propelled the man across his own paddock.

For those few moments, Sevilodorf remained rooted to the spot, torn between her partner's hasty exit and the strange events unfolding before her eyes. Recovering, she murmured, "Excuse me," and hastened after Anardil.

Almost trotting in her effort to catch up with his long legged stride, Sev wondered how far his emotions would carry him. His road through grief and despair had been so much longer than her own. Though he seldom admitted it, heart-quickening nightmares of that final battle before The Black Gate continued to haunt his sleep. Worse yet were those moments when he had to acknowledge there were things a one-armed man must ask for help to accomplish.

She saw him abruptly vanish around the corner of one of the men's bunkhouses, and increased her pace. Pleading silently that he had not chosen to retreat within the building, she rounded the same corner almost at a run, only to slam full into his very solid form.

Staggering from the impact, she exclaimed breathlessly, "You did that on purpose!"

"If you track a King's Man you must be prepared for anything; we are rather devious."

"I wasn't tracking you…" Sev's voice trailed off, "…only following you."

Anardil arched an eyebrow but declined to comment. Sev gritted her teeth; he had used that silent stare on her before. Moments passed and neither spoke. From the direction of the main house came the call of, "Breakfast" and the ringing of a deep-toned bell. Biting the inside of her cheek, Sev refused to break the silence. She would not beg for his confidences.

A clumping of many feet answered the call, and then faded until only the shrill twittering of finch punctuated the morning.

With a soft sigh, Anardil reached up to trace a finger along the pale scar running beneath her left eye. "You are too accustomed to my tricks, _meleth nin_."

Clasping his fingers, she answered, "You have no need for tricks with me. If you do not wish to speak, I will not pry. I ask only that you remember you no longer walk alone."

A wry grin twisted his lips. "Alone? Nay, I walk in the company of orcs and elves; hobbits and wargs; balrogs and beornings. The stuff of both dreams and nightmare fill my waking moments."

Though he spoke the words as a jest, Sev sensed the truth behind them and tightened her grip before whispering, "_I amar prestar aen."_

As it always did, the oddity of hearing Elvish spoken with the accents of the Mark brought a smile to his face. Only it slipped away to be replaced with a veiled weariness that wrenched Sev's heart.

"Aye, my love, the world is changed. The question is can I change to fit it?"

Yet before she could properly gather her wits, a quick, soft patter of feet preceded the appearance of Erin's cheerful features. "There you two are! Good gracious, if you dillydally there'll be nothing left! Come, come! Your food is getting cold."

"By your command, little mistress," said Anardil, offering a wry grin that nonetheless did not dispel the trepidation in Sev's mind. However, without further comment she allowed them to lead her to breakfast.

xxx

As host to Lord Valthaur, Captain Tarannon felt obliged to join the Justice and his two minions for breakfast. The pained expression that the cook threw at him, when they passed in the corridor, made the Ranger's spirits sink from his boots to somewhere far beneath the cellar.

In the barrack's mess hall, every seat remained vacant, except for those at the top table. Tarannon's men had either eaten early, or possessed sense enough to find alternative venues for their morning meal. And just as well - judging by the burden on the main table and its serving stands - every item of food in the pantry must have been dished up to please the massive but fastidious appetite of the law lord. Less appealing were the twin shadows of gloom also at table, Valthaur's clerk and Lord Faramir's errant chamberlain.

"Good morning, Captain." Valthaur paused from sniffing a jar of sauce and looked up as Tarannon took a seat. "Your cook is excellent, if somewhat basic, which is understandable. I owe a debt of gratitude to Willelmus, here, for thinking to bring a selection of condiments. You must try this."

Tarannon peered at the small vessel gliding towards him under the propulsion of podgy fingers. It contained a pale green paste shot through with black specks.

"Thank you," he ventured.

As discreetly as he could, he glanced at the plates of his companions to determine where the substance should be applied. Khint's bacon wore a dollop of green, so Tarannon helped himself to egg, bacon, sausage and mushrooms then spooned the paste onto the plate's rim. Tentatively, he dipped a small piece of sausage into the sauce and forked it into his mouth before any qualms could stop him.

Smiling with surprised pleasure, the Ranger swallowed the morsel and remarked, "Very tasty … oh … and keen. What is it?"

Valthaur's sudden grin set several of his chins atremble. "Better not to know. Just enjoy."

A gulp of air followed the sausage and fiery paste down Tarannon's throat, but he put aside imaginings and began to tuck into his breakfast with zeal. That zeal soon fizzled out when a question issued from beneath the black moustache of Valthaur's bald clerk.

"The Uruk-hai has been attended to?"

At the Captain's frown, Khint went on, "You did take him into custody?"

Carefully setting down his fork, Tarannon looked across at Valthaur. The law lord showed no interest in the current exchange, reaching for another jar and pouring red liquid upon a mound of mashed, fried potato.

Thus obliged to respond to the clerk, Tarannon explained with clipped precision, "The Uruk-hai and his master declined our invitation. We have no authority to arrest … Nik, considering that he has held to his oath. I did post a guard on their quarters to ensure no one could get in or out."

Spiky brows rose like raven's wings on Khint's forehead, and a glance that spoke volumes sped between clerk and chamberlain. Tarannon felt like a naughty child; he seethed that such irritating, uninformed nobodies dared to chastise him. When his attention returned to the food on his plate, it seemed grey and unappetising.

"Let us hope there is someone to answer to the hearing this morning," Willelmus commented, pinched nostrils paling.

Dipping a chunk of bacon deep into the green sauce, Tarannon shoved it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and felt sparks ignite on his tongue, all the way down his throat then into his stomach. If fate dictated indigestion, he'd rather earn it from the condiment than take it from the likes of Lord Valthaur's officials.

xxx

In the narrow confines of The Whistling Dog's third best parlour, the slanting rays of the autumn sun fell unwelcomed upon Ham and Tom's uncombed heads. Squinting in the brightness, the two men swayed unsteadily while their attempts to look apologetic faded into grimaces of incipient nausea.

Exercising the control his father long ago insisted the future Lord of the Silverbrook develop when dealing with those under his command, Darien clenched his jaw.

Gaze sternly averted, he muttered, "Bevin, Carrick, get them out of here before they disgrace themselves even further."

"Aye, sir." Thick-set Carrick rose from his seat with a gruff, "Had a hard night, did you, me lads? Let's find out if ol' Cameroth, here, has some hair o' the dog that bit ye."

Signalling Bevin to follow with Ham, Carrick wrapped one beefy arm about Tom and deftly guided him to the door.

When Osric puffed up at such highhanded treatment, Darien regarded the third man with disgust. "Until this matter is settled, all of you are representatives of my holding. You will not appear in a court of Gondor looking as if you had just emerged from a three day drunk."

The bleary-eyed sneer the shorter man attempted did nothing to endear him to the Silverbrook lord, nor did his slurred speech. "Look a sight better now than we did last winter when we was following you about the hills. You didn't object to us then, did you, your lordship?"

Darien heard young Evan's sharp inhalation, but bit back his own desire to lambaste Osric. There was some truth in what the man said. Not everyone could change long-held beliefs, even in the face of compelling evidence. While all his men avoided mention of their final orc-hunt, at least in front of Darien, the impending hearing must have hung heavy upon each of them; heaviest of all, perhaps, on Osric who only agreed to bear witness after much persuasion.

"No, Osric, I did not object to even Grady until it was far too late." Darien paused and exhaled slowly, firming his resolve once more. "But I have learned better since then, and those who wish to remain in my company must do so as well. Do I make myself clear?"

"Clear as a bell, Lord Darien." Then to the discomfiture of Horus, who had watched this exchange with his hand resting lightly upon the curved dagger at his waist, Osric snorted in derision. "I'll manage well enough without your company, 'specially as you reek of orc these days. Me, Ham and Tom'll find real men's work - plenty of it about."

"You are free to collect your quarter's wage and do as you will … after the hearing." Jaw tightening, Darien turned to one man both loyal enough and physically capable of handling matters for him. "Neal, take him to Cameroth. See what you can do about making him presentable. We've less than an hour before the hearing begins."

"Yes, sir." Rising, the apprentice blacksmith blinked at the sour smell rising from Osric, but took a place at his elbow.

Osric shrugged off the young man's hand and turned toward the door on his own grumbling, "I don't understand you, Neal. What sort of example are you setting for your brother? I know that shape shifter had you by the throat once, but you're with friends now. Friends who'll protect you from his sort."

Neal's look of repulsion changed to a hastily disguised grin when Evan called out, "I saw a bottle of hangover remedy under the bar in the common room, Neal. Ask Cameroth to pour them all a dose. It will fix them right up."

After the quick snick of the door closing, Horus fixed the youth with a stern eye. "'Tis unwise to poke weasels."

"Yes, sir," Evan said without the slightest remorse.

Darien looked from the youth to his Haradrim friend. "Would one of you explain the joke?"

"The cure our young man suggests is produced by Mistress Sevilodorf."

Though unable to prevent a snort of laughter, Darien soon sobered. "Let us pray Osric never discovers the fact, or he'll proclaim himself poisoned and force us all to wait for him to recover."

xxx

Hair still damp from extended dunkings in cold water and dressed in shirts borrowed from Carrick and Bevin, Ham and Tom descended the steps of The Whistling Dog in studious silence. Not so, Osric; his exclamations of delight concerning the effects of that magnificent elixir so prosaically named "hangover remedy" caused Evan to dissolve into a coughing fit.

"Now Cameroth, he was playing it close to the chest; but he'll see the sense in my suggestion soon enough," Osric proclaimed.

"What suggestion was that?" enquired Bevin in an effort to humour the oaf.

"To sell me the recipe."

Bevin frowned. "Why would he want to do that? If you're selling it too, he won't make as much money."

Osric bestowed a withering look upon the other man. "You don't think I plan to stay around this backwater, do you? I'd take it to the City. All those highbrow lords would pay right well."

"But…"

Puffing his beefy chest amidst visions of the wealth he already imagined in his hands, Osric added, "'Course I told him I'd send him a share of the profits for a while. To help sweeten the deal."

Darien bit his cheek to prevent himself from remarking that Cameroth impressed him as a man much too intelligent to become involved in long distance ventures with the likes of Osric.

Meanwhile Ham, not possessing such control, asked innocently, "Does that mean you'd be paying me back what you borrowed to buy your new saddle?"

As all eyes turned upon him, Osric blithely changed the subject. With a loud snort of disgust he pointed to a group blocking the road ahead.

"Not freaks enough in this farce, they've brought more."

Indeed, the company thus indicated turned numerous heads, composed as it was of a hobbit lass, three gnarled orcs, one massive Beorning, a silver-haired elf, two Rangers, a Rohirrim man and woman, and four Gondorian guards. Such diversity could only be the folk from the infamous Inn of The Burping Troll, and the whispers of bystanders clearly spoke of this realisation. Nonetheless, Darien's temper simmered again.

"If you cannot speak with courtesy, Osric, it is best that you hold your tongue," he snapped, as the raised eyebrow of the silver-haired elf signalled at least one of the party had heard Osric's rudeness.

In a soft whisper, meant only for Darien's ears, Horus murmured, "If a man has good manners and is not afraid of other people he will get by, even if he is stupid."

"Which leaves no hope for Osric," retorted the Silverbrook Lord before making his way forward to greet those from The Burping Troll.

His uneasy smile found quick welcome when he faced Erin the hobbit and Sevilodorf of Rohan. Captain Halbarad likewise presented an air of brisk friendliness, although Darien understood the coolness of Sev's one-armed mate, Anardil, and Russbeorn's stern silence. He would not expect either man to hold the architect of this whole fiasco in any great regard.

Of more interesting if dubious cheer were the snaggle-toothed greetings of the three orcs, Gubbitch, Nik and Lugbac.

"Hey-up, lordship!" cackled Gubbitch merrily. "Tha looks fit as fiddle, tha does. Travel must agree wi' thee."

Darien's discomfort over how he should respond was lost amidst realisation of just how huge Lugbac really was. Thankfully the expression in those yellow eyes remained docile as a pet ox, but he did wonder where the enormous creature fit into the scheme of affairs.

Knowing the question behind the oh-so-careful nods and widened eyes, Sevilodorf hastened to explain, "Lugbac will not attend the hearing. Gubbitch will, of course, as Nik's chief, but Lugbac has some friends to visit."

"Friends?" echoed Osric disdainfully. "What friends does an orc have?"

Sev drew breath to respond then caught herself when Anardil touched her elbow to remind that her tendency to react impulsively must be kept under careful rein. The emotional vagaries of a Beorning were more than enough for this event.

In a chilly tone, she replied, "Lugbac likes to make himself useful, so he has many friends. A lesson that would benefit many of us." With a stiff bow to the others, Sev said, "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, Erin and I will escort Lugbac to The Black Cauldron."

At another touch to her elbow, Sev rolled her eyes and added, "If Master Alfgard would be so kind as to lend us his countenance?"

Anardil remained beside Russbeorn and the elf, but his grey eyes twinkled fondly while his lady turned away. His grin hidden by his beard, Alfgard agreed and the foursome headed down the winding lane leading toward the river.

As the small group passed out of sight, one of the Gondorian Guards stepped forward hesitantly. "Your pardon, my lord, sirs, but Master Willelmus was most insistent that everyone arrive in good time."

Anardil controlled his groan at the mention of Lord Faramir's chamberlain, sent here as personal assistant to noble Lord Valthaur. Though, he thought, it might be somewhat amusing to watch the renowned stickler for protocol deal with this assortment of personalities. Indeed, it might prove to be the one humorous point of the day.

With a glance at Captain Halbarad, Anardil nodded in reply. "By all means, lead us on. Eru forbid we keep our lord's chamberlain waiting."

Wiry little Nik glanced up at his Beorning companion anxiously as the party set into motion once more. What Russ thought, however, he did not say, and Nik sturdily matched his stride to that of his friend and teacher, and the company soon passed from view.

xxx

TBC ...


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_October 25 - Henneth Annûn_

While a by-no-means massive room, the meeting hall in the Rangers' barracks provided sufficient space to accommodate those expected for the hearing. Its doors opened mid-morning to admit the quiet crowd outside. A solemn-faced Ranger requested that the witnesses enter first.

Russ scratched at his beard, ushering the tiny uruk before him, and noted with satisfaction how folk ebbed cautiously from the doorway to allow his giant form to pass. They even stepped back from his shadow as if it could somehow damage them. Wise to be wary, the Beorning thought, for deep within his soul, unseen lips curled to reveal white incisors, and fur sprang erect, crackling with static on the scruff of his neck.

These people came not for justice, but for the thrill of the show, the same crowds who would stone a thief who stole no more than a loaf of bread. He briefly amused himself with imagining how they would react to a bearish roar, but contented himself with a gentle humming. No fault of his if anyone mistook it for a growl.

"Witnesses over here, please." The Ranger indicated a row of chairs beside a desk laden with documents. Looking up at Russ, he added, "If … Nik … could sit by the table, then you should find a place amongst the audience … sir."

The scowl that appeared on Russ' face could have curdled milk, but Nik shrugged and sat down. "I'll be fine. Mistress Sevilodorf will sit next to me." The uruk turned to the Rohirrim, a question clear in his expression.

"Of course I will," Sev answered, shooing away Anardil and the fretting hobbit lass. "Go with Russ and the others. We will indeed be fine."

Reluctantly, those friends who accompanied the witnesses found places on the front row of benches set out for the audience. Meanwhile, Sev sat by Nik, with Evan on her other side. Next came Horus then Bevin, Ham, and Tom. Osric took the last of the eight chairs.

After the final few folk filed in, the doors closed. Only whispers and stifled coughs sounded in the room, even those stilling when an official stepped up to the desk and rapped a gavel three times.

"Be upstanding for Lord Justice Valthaur."

Sev recognised Willelmus, but her surprise at seeing him here, in Henneth Annûn, gave way to stomach churning anxiety as the obese law lord waddled in through a side entrance. Everyone else stood, but it took Nik's anxious tug on her sleeve for Sev to realise she alone remained seated. Getting to her feet quickly, her eyes sought out Anardil. He returned her gaze, the ghost of a reassuring smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

The judge settled his bulk into a heavy wooden chair, and cast a glance around the room. In a sonorous voice, he announced, "We are here to decide whether Nik, Uruk-hai of Isengard, has any crime to answer for. This is not a trial, but rather an enquiry into the incident that resulted in the death of one of the Lord of Silverbrook's men - a person named Grady. I will briefly outline the facts leading to the landslide that caused several people to be trapped in a cave. What followed after, these eight witnesses will relate."

In the front row of the audience, the Burping Troll contingent and Darien's smaller group listened while Valthaur 'outlined' in lengthy detail the events that took place in the chilling month of January. He employed such extreme detail, in fact, that the minutiae almost submerged the facts. If there were a blade of grass Darien's party passed or a stone in one horse's shoe, it seemed to have found its place in Valthaur's account.

After the first half-hour, Erin noticed her legs swinging back and forth and tried her best to stop them. The law lord's voice smoothed the grim edges from the familiar story, making it flat and … well … ordinary. One foot swung again unbidden; Erin grabbed her knee to still the motion. Truth be told, she admitted, Valthaur made the whole thing sound tiresome. Surely there were a dozen better ways to describe armed men accosting a lone woman on the road, demanding she lead them to hidden orcs, and then knocking her on the head when she refused. Never mind if the blow itself was an accident. The whole sorry affair was one accident after another.

Puffing a weary breath, the hobbit cast a glance to either side. On her right sat Gubbitch, and from the glazed look in the old orc's yellow eyes, he found the recitation as tedious as she did. Anardil, on her left, seemed thoroughly absorbed. However, she noticed that his gaze occasionally flickered, catching movements and expressions around the room faster than a frog catches flies. Erin observed this in fascination for a few moments until Anardil realised and gave her a 'look'.

"Finally," the judge concluded, after what seemed, to Erin if no one else, like hours, "a landslide occurred without warning, trapping these witnesses and three other men inside the cave. This left Russbeorn and Nik's other companions and associates sealed outside, and hence ignorant of facts beyond this point."

Setting aside the parchments from which he had read, Valthaur tapped his foremost chin with a plump finger. "It is time for Nik to recount the subsequent events as he remembers them." Looking down at the small uruk, he continued, "You may remain seated, and simply tell us what you recall from the moments after the landslide."

Recognising the panic on his friend's face, Russ knew that until this moment, Nik had thought the hearing would be an ordeal, but nothing as terrible as past ordeals. The little uruk knew from grim experience that his wiry body was capable of enduring almost any hardship or hurt. However, Nik had never reckoned with perils of the soul. Now the prospects of speaking out to an audience of many strangers, including Rangers and high officials, visibly filled the uruk with absolute terror. When his wide eyes sought his big friend in clear desperation, Russ felt like striding across the hall and dragging Nik away from this maddening farce.

However, Valthaur's mouth curled into a kindly, encouraging smile, and he prompted, "Come now, Nik. Tell me about what happened." The law lord patted himself on the chest, indicating that the uruk should ignore the rest of the room. "Was it dark in the cave?"

Though his voice came haltingly, Nik answered, "Not completely … there was one torch still alight … I think it was only one."

"Were you frightened?"

Nik thought about that for a moment. "I had been, when the men were threatening me and Mistress Sevilodorf. But I wasn't just then … I was happy because I knew my friend, Russ, had arrived outside. Him and our friends and his bees. Nobody can get the better of Teach - that's what I call him because he teaches me things and won't let me call him Master." The uruk looked across at Russ who nodded encouragement. "So I felt sort of safer than I had since the men kidnapped me. Sev wasn't hurt by the landfall, and the men were busy worrying about themselves, and lighting lanterns so they could see the damage."

"Ah, you saw them light the lanterns. Was everyone else uninjured? That is, aside from the injuries that happened before the landslide, of which I have already told."

"Not everyone. A man had been buried under the rubble. He was dead. Then there were some that were injured. Evan's leg was broken." Nik pointed to the lad sitting alongside Sevilodorf. "Sev fixed that, and I think she fixed up a few cuts and the like."

Tension eased from Russ' muscles as Nik visibly relaxed, continuing his account in a strong voice and with little prompting. The audience listened avidly as the story gripped them. Erin leant forward in fascination and horror, now totally unaware of the passage of time. In Nik's innocent recitation, the true complexion of desperate beings sealed away in the dark came to life, while tempers and sanity inexorably frayed.

Occasionally, Valthaur halted Nik and asked for clarification on some detail or other. "So, what were the first words that you spoke to the men inside the cave - to put out some of the torches to save air?"

"I think so."

"Why then? Why not when they first lit them?"

Nik frowned, searching for words. "It's difficult to explain…"

"Try. There's no hurry."

"The men had been horrid to me, and some of them were even horrid to Sev. They treated me worse than a wild animal, calling me 'it' and threatening to kill me. Landis, the man that Grady murdered later, he talked to me and called me 'he' instead of 'it' - I thought he might listen to good advice even coming from an uruk."

Valthaur nodded understanding. "What happened after that?"

"They put out all but one of the torches. The dark made the cave seem even smaller. No one liked it with the shadows bouncing around; but Grady, he was more scared than anyone was. I could smell his fear, like hot copper. I knew he was growing dangerous, so I broke the ropes round my wrists. Then he yelled, 'You'll breathe no more of my air' and he came at me and Sev. Landis jumped in between. Grady wouldn't listen to what Landis was telling him and attacked him. Landis had broken ribs, but he fought well…"

Aside from the Uruk-hai's voice, not another sound could be heard in the room while he carefully finished his account of the fight and how Landis' final terrible injury had been deliberately inflicted, then of how before Grady could attack again he, Nik, had beaten the murderous man to death.

In response to a question in many a mind, Valthaur ventured, "You must be much stronger than you look?"

Smiling shyly, but with pride, Nik replied, "Oh, I am. I'm as strong as an ox. Ask anyone who knows me."

After a few brief questions, the law lord thanked Nik for his co-operation, and then he rapped the gavel and declared a break of two hours for lunch.

xxx

Open air after the prolonged closeness of the hearing room proved blessing to more than one. While Anardil pressed his hand to his back and breathed fresh air with relief, Russbeorn struck a wide-legged pose in the centre of the yard. There he stretched his vast arms and chest as broad as they would go, and blasted a torrential sigh. That everyone in the place leapt half out of their skin at the sound troubled him not a bit.

His equanimity thus restored, he and Nik ambled off with Halbarad hurrying fretfully after and their Ranger minders trotting even more helplessly behind them. No one, it seemed, felt inclined to get between a Beorning or an Uruk-hai and their lunch. The remainder of The Burping Troll group followed more slowly, while Darien sternly instructed Carrick and Bevin to keep Osric, Ham and Tom at hand. The last thing anyone needed was for their witnesses to disappear into a cask of ale.

"That actually went very well, don't you think?" Erin asked as she held the door to the Rangers' dining hall.

Anardil reached over her head to hold it for her, but she paused under his arm to glance at her companions.

"Yes," said Sev. "Though of course that was the easy part."

"Why do you say that?" Erin continued to peer back at her friend as they went inside. "All anybody has to do is tell the truth."

"Because," rumbled Russ' voice from the passageway ahead of them, "Memory is not always the same as truth."

At Erin's troubled frown, Sev gave the hobbit a gentle push. "Never you mind, Erin. Too much thinking on an empty stomach is not good for anyone. Hurry up, or Nik will eat it all before we get there."

A quick smile erased all shadow from the hobbit's face, and the company filed in to enjoy the waiting repast. Indeed, a hearty meal went a long way towards buoying all spirits, and even Russ' dark brow seemed to clear. The hospitality of the Rangers' kitchen, while plain, proved amply filling. Afterwards, Alfgard announced his intention to return to work at the stable yard, giving his well wishes for the remainder of the hearing as he left.

"Mind you keep that Lugbac off somewhere safe," he added dourly. "Never saw anybody who could get in trouble so fast."

"Have no fear," replied Sev, hiding a smile behind her napkin. "Lorgarth said The Black Cauldron needs a strong back to dig a new privy, so Lugbac got the job."

"Good place for him," Alfgard grumbled.

As the greying Rohirrim stumped away, muttering under his breath, Erin exchanged glances with Evan and Neal. All burst into grins and giggles, then the hobbit passed a pan of berry tarts.

Leaning towards Sev, Anardil asked quietly, "Do I want to know?"

"He broke one of Alfgard's anvils." As Anardil's eyebrows leapt, Sev sighed and shook her head. "Don't ask. I'm sure it was -."

"An accident," Anardil finished for her, and grinned his crooked grin. Touching a finger to her cheek, he added, "Would you mind, love, if I took a bit of air? I find the walls are closing in a bit."

Knowing well how Anardil despised protocol and tedium - as much as she did, herself - she nodded. "By all means, take a little walk or something. I'm certain I'll be quite safe, here. If any foe can get past a Beorning, an Uruk-hai, an elf and a room full of strapping Gondorian men, I'll be sure to call you."

Anardil's snort turned into a deep chuckle, and his grey eyes twinkled. "I know, sometimes I am smothering. I'll be right back."

He brushed a kiss to her cheek, then stood and made his way outside. Once again in crisp autumn sunshine, he briefly considered imitating Russ' roaring stretch, if that would iron out a few kinks. Choosing to ignore the sentries who studiously pretended to ignore him, Anardil let his feet be his guide. Moments later he found himself behind the dining hall, where a gnarled apple tree spread its limbs over a small bench.

To his mild surprise, someone already sat there, a tall, lean figure with silver hair flowing down his back, who appeared to be engrossed in a study of withered apples. Half a dozen shrivelled red fruits hung among the yellow leaves overhead, and he belatedly realised several small, speckled birds hopped among the branches. They vanished in a whirr of wings as he drew near.

"Lunch for song thrush, too, mm? Unusual to see so many together." said Anardil.

"Redwings, actually," Celebsul softly corrected. "One seldom sees them in town. Join me, if you like."

Inordinately pleased to have the venerable elf's welcome, Anardil sat. Whether by chance or the elf's wish, the birds reappeared, fluttering lightly among twigs and limbs so that now he could see the flashes of russet for which they were named. For a moment man and elf simply sat, listening to the ordinary sounds of the village going about its business.

Finally Anardil said, "Lugbac broke an anvil."

"Oh? How did he do that?"

"Goodness only knows."

Celebsul chuckled quietly, the sound somehow restful to Anardil's ears. The former Ranger sighed and clasped his hand to one knee, watching the feasting birds flit overhead.

"Have you thought how perfectly strange that comment was?" he mused. "Not long ago, it would have been, 'orcs attacked a holding yesterday' or 'we saw orcs hunting along the north road'. Now … we remark on an orc breaking an anvil and think it amusing."

One pale elvish brow arched. "I frankly find it terribly amusing."

"Well, it is, but … an orc. Breaking an anvil. By accident." Anardil shook his head. "Sometimes I can't help wondering if the world is changing faster than I can keep up."

Celebsul looked slowly around at grass and tree and sky as he asked, "What is it of the past that you would preserve?"

Frowning, Anardil scratched his beard. What indeed? Not war, not the evil of Sauron, not shivering in frozen wilderness even though in the company of his brethren.

After moments of silence, the elf smiled wistfully "Let me put it a different way. What of the present would you like to be otherwise?"

An even worse question, Anardil thought. He would not want his love, Sevilodorf, to be otherwise, or his comrades and friends. He would not want other than King Aragorn as monarch and captain. Then he realised the answer.

"The past, though dreadful, held certainties. Orcs were the enemy, wargs were the enemy; now they are, and are not." The former Ranger shook his head in confusion. "All of my life, I detested them, for good reason. Not just that one took my arm, but for the thousands and thousands of people that they destroyed. If you saw an orc, you killed it before it could kill you. Now … now…"

"Now," Celebsul spoke the words for him, "you have to treat them as you would men, and wonder if they are good or evil, wise or foolish, worthy of trust or riddled with treachery."

"Most of them are," Anardil responded to the elf's final phrase.

"Indeed. You have travelled in many lands, even amongst the enemy, and met different peoples. I believe you are a good judge of character, Anardil. Is that not so?"

Knowing the elf never dealt in empty compliments, Anardil answered with professional honesty. "I've learnt to recognise the signs of deceit in a man's demeanour, to sense hidden threats, to read intentions. Yes, my life has depended many times upon such skills."

"Even amongst foreigners who all look the same to you?" Celebsul's grin announced this to be a jest.

Chuckling, Anardil replied, "It does not take so long to learn to read alien features as well as those of this land…" Face crumpling, the man dipped his head and covered his own features with his hand.

"Master Celebsul," he groaned before looking up. "Is it really that simple?"

"Yes " Celebsul observed his unexpected student kindly. "Orcs may not seem comely with the distortions inflicted upon them, but their eyes work as ours do, and their mouths and hands. Though it requires study, which means, as you know, careful observation, their characters can be judged as with all people."

Anardil sighed, and wished that spent breath could ease the dull grate of shame.

"I have avoided looking," he humbly said.

"Yes."

Celebsul's steady regard suggested he waited for something further, and Anardil reached one step more. "And they know this. The ones like Nik. And Gubbitch."

"Perhaps it is time," the elf said quietly, "that all people learn to see each other truly. Is that not what this day's efforts are about?"

For a moment Anardil simply stared, struck mute with revelation. Chuckling softly, Celebsul turned his attention to the busy thrush once more. Then Anardil smiled, and together, elf and man watched the redwings feast on dried apples.

xxx

The hearing reassembled in reasonably good spirits, talking considerably louder than at the start of the morning session. Russ ambled in with his bearded face no less brooding, but his warning glance at the gathering seemed unneeded. Perhaps hope existed after all, and the honour of men would permit justice even for an Uruk-hai.

Willelmus quickly settled the gathering into their seats and silence, rapping the gavel fiercely while firing withering looks around the room. Within minutes, Lord Valthaur sat ensconced in his chair.

The justice briefly summarised the morning's testimony. Then he raised his head and called for Osric to present his account of the events in the cave.

Erin sighed as she watched the burly and unhandsome orc-hunter straighten in his seat. This would surely be a long, dreary afternoon, listening to the same story being told over-and-over again.

In a crude, loud voice, Osric announced himself as if shouting across a busy taproom. "Here I am, your lordship. Should I just tell you what happened from the start? You can ask me questions if I say ought you don't understand."

"Yes, please do," Valthaur replied, apparently unfazed by the vigour of the witness' response.

With hardly a pause for breath, the man clapped his hands to his knees and launched into his story. "Well, there was just the one torch, and it was dark and dusty so we lit lanterns - that orc never said then that it was dangerous. With one man dead and poor Evan with his leg broke, and everyone terrified about what had happened outside and what was happening inside, some folk were in a right state. Grady was terrified. He thought the woman was a witch, and I reckon being holed up with her and a right strong uruk started driving him mad."

A frown creased Erin's forehead and she noticed Anardil's back stiffening. It almost sounded as if Osric blamed Sevi and Nik for Grady's madness.

The man spoke on, but the tone of his voice altered subtly as he mournfully shook his head. "Poor Grady, cast into the dark with man's oldest foe. As it went on, his fear got worse and worse. We couldn't see a way out; it must have felt to Grady like the walls were closing in, and that uruk there in the shadows staring at him with murderous eyes."

Halbarad and Celebsul, seated on either side of the Beorning, felt rather than heard the rumble of fury that shuddered through Russ' massive frame.

Shifting on his chair, Osric settled into a new posture, leaning forward as if talking to close friends. "You wouldn't have thought it could get any worse. But just as Grady was at breaking point, that uruk told him that the lanterns would suck out all the air and smother us all. 'Why then?' I ask myself. 'Why not when we first lit them?' Seems to me that the uruk wanted Grady to go nuts."

As the subterranean rumble deepened in Russ' chest, Celebsul briefly rested his hand on the giant's arm. He intended the gesture to reassure him that others had noted the twisting of truth. It was also a plea for patience, though judging by Nik's growing look of worry, across the room, it was anyone's guess if that patience would hold.

Valthaur meanwhile frowned and waved a podgy hand in dismissal. "Now, my good Osric, you should try to avoid making assumptions, if you can. We cannot ascertain what is in another's mind."

"But the uruk admitted it this morning," the orc-hunter objected. "It said it could smell the fear, and it had its hands free. Why else goad poor Grady unless it wanted him to attack so it could kill him?"

Osric did not wait for a reply. "Anyroad, when the lights were put out, there was still the enemy's … foul spawn breathing air that could save decent men's lives." The orc-hunter lurched in his chair, his expression emphatic. "I tell you, Grady acted in sheer desperation, to save his friends and himself. He went to kill the uruk, leapt forward with his sword. It was dark, only one lantern still burning, and Landis ran between Grady and the orc. I don't think Grady meant to hurt Landis. The floor was so uneven; they both kept losing their footing."

Holding up one hand, the law lord sought clarification. "You are suggesting Landis, in a bid to save Nik, accidentally ran into Grady's sword?"

"Yes!" Osric nodded quickly. "It was just a … terrible, tragic blunder."

"Why would Landis, an orc-hunter, intervene to save Nik's life?"

Osric scowled at what he clearly thought a stupid question. "Because the uruk's friends were outside, just like he explained this morning: orcs and elves and that giant bear-man with all his wild beasts. Landis feared they'd kill us if ought happened to the uruk."

"Justice," Russ rumbled, and heads swivelled as his bass tones gained power. "Justice served as justice is due. What law is this that embraces lies?"

Willelmus hissed stridently for silence but the Beorning seemed to swell in his seat. "If a man teaches an ass to speak, it is still an ass. And if you get a dozen asses to speak, that does not make their braying truth. Bid that ass to speak truly, or I'll adjourn this farce myself!"

Willelmus' shrill gasp may have involved him swallowing his tongue. Nik stared from his seat with his frightened eyes wide as teacups, oblivious to Sev whispering earnestly beside him. Meanwhile the Rangers posted about the room looked positively whey-faced. No one had the slightest inkling how to subdue a four-hundred-pound, nine-foot-tall, furiously angry man without breaking pretty much everything within half a mile.

However, Valthaur merely listened with one brow gently cocked. As Russ subsided with great fists knotted on his knees, the corpulent justice tapped a sheaf of papers on end.

"You are a farmer, Russbeorn, are you not?"

"Yes," Russ rumbled warily.

"Now, when you harvest wheat, you must first reap all the wheat, grain and chaff together. Is that not so? And then you winnow away the impurities?"

Cautiously Russ dipped his big head in acknowledgement. "Even so," he said.

Valthaur's several chins rippled as he nodded in return. "It would seem a foolish man who refused to harvest his wheat, if he hated the chaff too much to sort out the clean grain."

Heavy brow lowered, Russ asked, "And your point is?"

Willelmus still looked as if he anticipated thunderbolts to burst the roof at any moment, but Valthaur merely smiled. "My task, Russbeorn, is to take the crop, the chaff and wheat together, and winnow until I find the clean grain. I ask you, sir, to let me continue the harvest, and I will promise you clean grain at the end."

"Promises," Russ growled. "Do men remember them, once spoken?"

Now Valthaur's eyes sharpened. "I do, sir. On my honour, I do."

Honour. There the fat law lord had said it. The same force that brought Nik to this place, under the pitiless eyes of an uncaring audience.

Quietly Valthaur pursued, "Did I hear Nik's account with any less gravity or care than I am listening to Osric, now?"

No, he had not. Russ held it all clearly in his mind, the fat man sitting with the same near-fatherly ease throughout. He shook his head, feeling the game of words being played in pieces too intricate for his sturdy hands.

"Let me continue the harvest," Valthaur insisted. "Let me answer to my duty, as you answer to the duties of friendship."

He did not like it. He would not like it. But Russ settled back in his seat with his arms folded on his chest, and the room breathed a collective sigh of relief. Let the asses bray, he thought. He should never have agreed to any of this. And certainly not in autumn, when the time for sleep and rest drew near. However, natural justice could still win through where the mechanisations of men failed.

Turning to the near-forgotten orc-hunter, Valthaur said, "Pray do continue, Osric. You were telling us of Grady's fight with Nik, and Landis' misfortune."

Blinking like a hound suddenly hearing his master's voice, Osric straightened in his chair. Then he drew breath and raced on with his story.

"Like I was saying, in the mix-up of the fight, Landis just accidentally got in the way. Everybody was scared and confused. When Landis fell, Grady was horrified at what he'd done. I can see it like it was just yesterday. Grady stood there frozen … trans … uh, fixed at his terrible mistake. Then the uruk came hurtling out of the blackness, bowling Grady over. The man didn't have a chance, not in the state he was in. The uruk resorted to its most …uh, bestial instincts. It climbed on top of Grady and smashed his head into the rock over-and-over until long after Grady was dead."

Shoulders hunched, Osric shot a quick glance at Russ and nearly ran his words together in his haste to be done. "We stood there watching in horror. It was too late to save Grady, and like Landis, we didn't dare attack the uruk, not if we wanted to be rescued and then be allowed to live. Its - its black heart must have … ah, rejoiced, knowing we dared not take our revenge."

When Osric finished, Valthaur blew out an audible breath that could have many interpretations. To Russ, it sounded like disbelief, to Halbarad it seemed weariness, while those who hated all orcs took it for disgust at the uruk's behaviour. In the momentary hush that followed, low voices murmured around the room, and feet and clothing rustled.

Nik's sharp whisper carried further than he meant it to: "But he's lying!"

Sev replied lowly, to which Nik hissed, "But we're supposed to tell the truth!"

The Rohirrim woman glanced across the room and caught Anardil's eye. He shook his head minutely in response. Her lips thinned.

The justice, however, had a further question. "Landis was still alive at this point, though mortally wounded?"

"He was wounded," the orc-hunter agreed. "Not so sure that he was mortally wounded though."

"If he wasn't mortally wounded, why did he die?"

"Not for me to say." Osric cast a glance along the line of witnesses. "The 'healer' woman tended to him." His eyes focused on Sevilodorf's face, but he averted his gaze when the white fury written there seeped through his thick skin. "Not for me to say," he repeated.

"Indeed," Valthaur agreed. Then his tone shifted to a lighter note of finality. "This hearing concerns only what befell between Grady and Nik and, of course, anything that has a bearing on that. Thank you for your testimony."

Having dismissed Osric, the law lord addressed his audience. "In my decades of presiding over occasions such as this, I have invariably found that people recall the same event in many different ways. This is why it is essential to listen to every possible witness."

While Valthaur talked, Russ turned to Halbarad and insisted through clenched teeth, "It is still a bloody travesty."

Having entertained very similar thoughts, Hal tried to pacify the man. "He is one witness out of eight. For now it is only Nik's word against his. By the end of the hearing it will be seven people's word against Osric. Give the process a chance, Russ. Justice will be done; I'm confident of that."

Russ' deep-chested snort of disgust gave vent to his view of that assurance.

"And you," the Beorning turned to Celebsul, "are you confident justice will be done?"

The elf answered in the manner of elves. "One way … or another."

Once again, Russ sank into the grim cloud of his own brooding, for he held no such faith in the precarious justice of men. Better than the fat man, Russ knew what it took to winnow grain; a good, clean gust of wind. Osric was walking, blithering proof that justice needed to blow a lot harder.

Further down the bench, Erin's gaze hovered anxiously between Anardil at her side and Sev across the room. The looks the couple sped towards each other seemed full of steel, as if they exchanged weapons, or armour. Yet warmth also went with the steel.

Images of a comfy campfire amidst the field of battle spilled into the hobbit's imagination, and she wished more than anything that she could pop a cauldron of hearty stew atop the flames. When Sevi turned to Nik and squeezed his arm in encouragement, Erin yearned to add honeyed-apple pie to the imaginary feast. To her mortification, unbidden tears threatened. But they always did when the hobbit lass realised it would take far more than a wonderful meal to set things right.

Darien breathed a sigh when the law lord called Ham to speak next - a quiet sigh but less ambiguous than that which Valthaur had exhaled. Osric then Ham? What stupidity of fate contrived the puppet to follow the master? It could be no worse given that the afternoon drew on and impressions formed this day would be hard to alter come the morning. It could be no worse, aside from the impossibility of Tom being called after Ham.

The frown on the dark face of his friend, Horus, sitting amongst the witnesses, suggested the Haradrim also found the coincidence appalling. What wisdom had he spoken to Darien on the journey here? 'In order to obtain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd.' Well, the absurd was happening without any effort from anyone, as far as he could tell.

Yet some of the phrases that had issued from Osric's lips nagged at Darien, 'cast into the dark with man's oldest foe'. That did not ring true to the man's usual way of talking. With that thought, more of Horus' wisdom echoed, 'Truth is a point, the subtlest and finest'. Even as Ham sat repeating Osric's lies, the word 'subtle' lodged in Darien's mind. Osric could never be considered subtle, but the distortion of the truth he had spoken, had been.

Soon however, the shame coursing through the Lord of Silverbrook's veins pushed aside all attempts to understand the situation, while he listened to another of his own men make a mockery of justice. And hotter than his humiliation, he felt rage emanating from the giant sitting just two places away with Captain Halbarad in between. The Beorning's distrust of men and their justice bore bitter fruit.

Darien leant towards Hal and whispered, "Tell Russ we'll question these men after the hearing. He should not risk himself or Nik in anger at their treachery. If I cannot make them answer, then he will."

The Ranger's eyes narrowed. "If Russ gets his hands on them, they'll not have a chance to answer." Nevertheless, Hal turned and spoke quietly but urgently to the Beorning.

When Ham's stumbling testimony finally ended, Darien closed his eyes against the ache in his tightly clenched jaw. To the Law Lord's credit, Valthaur had treated the man with careful impartiality. Sifting the chaff from the grain would not be an easy task, given that Ham had backtracked his story so often that even Darien, who knew the details more fully than he wished, could not keep the order straight.

While his hope for a bolt of lightning to prevent Tom from speaking was useless, Darien clutched the obsidian trinket from his belt and prayed that somehow the stone would again transform darkness into light. Surely simple, good-natured Tom could not compound disaster. The Silverbrook lord even managed to summon a ray of hope when Tom answered Valthaur's summons with humbly-smiling respect.

Though such a thing seemed scarcely possible, Tom's statement was even more twisted than Ham's. His voice lost all inflection, as if he recited from poorly-remembered rote, and he frequently stumbled over his choice of words. He repeated himself the times he came upon a workable turn of phrase. When Valthaur questioned him on two or three points, Tom became flustered and had to be impelled to resume his thought. Often he stopped and appeared to be looking for prompting from Osric.

Finally he retreated to sullenly answering each of Lord Valthaur's questions with, "I can't remember." Even Valthaur's patience appeared exhausted for the man began to tap podgy fingers upon the polished top of his table. With each tap, his many rings glistened in the shaft of light from the high western window.

At last, Tom mumbled, "All I know is that thing beat Grady's face until it wasn't there no more."

The fingers stopped their dancing as the law lord levelled a steely gaze. "May I remind you, Tom, that here we seek facts, not outbursts of emotion."

Thus rebuked, Tom sank into his seat, his forehead and mouth bleached white, with his cheeks glowing red in between.

"You are excused, Tom," Valthaur then announced. "This part of proceedings is hereby adjourned."

Amidst the murmuring quiet, Darien made out the shimmering facets of an adamant upon the law lord's right hand. He thought again of Horus' admonition that they must remain as unwavering as that stone in seeing that justice be done. A bench whacked to the floor as Russbeorn abruptly stood, massive hands clenched in fists of rage. Yet though every breath stalled as each eye fixed on him, the giant made no sound. His slow, scathing look about the room seemed denunciation enough.

Then he rumbled but a single word: "Chaff."

xxx 

TBC ...


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_October 25 - Late Afternoon_  
_Outside the Ranger Headquarters_

A dark shawl draped over her red hair, Sira huddled in the doorway of the tanner's shop. Now and again she sneaked careful glances down the lane, but took pains to remain concealed in the growing shadows of late afternoon. The tanner, like so many others, had closed his business for the day and gone to watch the spectacle taking place within the Rangers' headquarters.

"How much longer can they be?" muttered the barmaid.

Twilight neared and if she did not return to The Whistling Dog in time to serve the evening trade, Cameroth's wrath would descend upon her head with full force. Most displeased with her for sneaking off last evening, the innkeeper swore that if she left him shorthanded again he'd send her back to Minas Tirith.

Almost, Sira wished the threat might be carried out. Cullen's strange warning left her apprehensive. The village, filled with those she would yesterday have categorised as too dull to be worth notice, now seemed a sinister place. To make matters worse, the hearing of the runty uruk from The Burping Troll served to attract a crowd of strangers who seemed determined to while away their free moments guzzling beer and slurping soup in the common room of The Whistling Dog. How would she know which of these might be one of Margul's spies, or even Margul himself in disguise?

At the sound of approaching voices, Sira tensed and hovered on the edge of flight. Eyes closed, and fists clenched to still the trembling of her hands, she steeled her resolve. She could not bear another day of jumping at every voice that called her name, or searching the faces of the men in the common room for silvery-green eyes. That afternoon in The Whistling Dog, an exchange with a shaggy-haired merchant left her heart racing at a desperate pace. While huddled in the back hall afterwards, she determined to seek help from someone. But the question of whom had not been easily decided.

The obvious solution of the Rangers of Henneth Annûn she rejected immediately. Her dismissal by the High Council of Gondor still rankled, based as it was on the assumption that the crimes of which she accused Margul were the product of the imagination of a scorned lover. Not willingly would she take her troubles to those who represented the law. Besides, Cullen warned about Margul's powerful friends. Might that not mean connections within the Rangers?

Her kinsman, Cameroth, and Jareth the barkeeper were discarded for similar reasons. They would dismiss her claims out of hand. As for her new beau, Sira feared to involve him; he would have no advice to offer, and might either attempt to confront Margul, thus getting himself killed, or maybe report it to his superiors, putting himself and her in even greater danger. Given Cullen's warning not to trust anyone from the village, and though the thought galled her greatly, she narrowed her choices down to the people from The Burping Troll or those travelling with Lord Darien of Silverbrook. They, at least, she knew not to be involved with Margul. But which of them would believe her?

She could not stomach the thought of speaking to the Ranger Captain, Halbarad, nor that strange man, Anardil. She remembered his grey eyes staring, unblinking, as he listened to her harrowing tale of escape from Margul's henchwoman, Minna. Furthermore, he had shown not a shred of emotion when they dragged her to identify that hideous girl's strangled body - which still made her shiver. The elf was out of the question, as were the orcs, of course.

For a moment, she considered Lord Darien's contingent. Except for the Haradrim, who treated her with an unnerving courtesy, and those uncouth men who had chosen The Black Cauldron's hospitality over The Whistling Dog's, the Silverbrook men were well mannered. Yet, she could not say she trusted them with her life.

And that was what she would be doing. Whomever she told would hold her life in their hands; for there was no doubt in Sira's heart that if Margul ever found out she spread the news of his arrival, he would hunt her down and kill her as he had that other wretched girl.

Turning the problem over-and-over, she arrived reluctantly at the conclusion the only person she could look to for help was Sevilodorf. Though there was no love lost between them, Sira had to admit that the Rohirrim woman's reputation as a fair and honest trader was deserved, and that she possessed very powerful friends, herself. If the woman could be convinced that Sira spoke the truth, and agreed to champion her cause, then the information would not be dismissed out of hand - but how to contact her?

Due to Cameroth's refusal to house orcs at The Whistling Dog, the folk of The Burping Troll were guests of Sevilodorf's Rohirrim connections. From information gathered during the day, Sira knew that a guard had been posted at the stable yard. Thus, entrance would be refused without more questions than she was prepared to answer.

After much thought, the only solution Sira came up with was to station herself along the route the party must take upon completion of the day's hearing. Perhaps there would be some opportunity to speak privately to the woman. Or at the very least pass her a message requesting a meeting.

Again approaching voices drove her deep into the shadows, but this time it seemed her wait would be rewarded. The towering form of the Beorning was unmistakable, as were the silver haired elf and tall Ranger, dwarfed by their companion's bulk. Hurrying along in the trio's wake strode an obviously agitated Lord Darien, and the dark forms of the Haradrim and two orcs engaged in a furious exchange. Behind them slouched two of Darien's men - Bevin and Carrick, she remembered them being called. Sira cast her eyes downward as the gleaming eyes of one of the misshapen creatures turned in her direction. The heavier tread of armoured soldiers passed by before she risked another glance.

Long moments passed while Sira identified various townspeople and some of those whom she had served meals at noon. But where was Sevilodorf? Had the woman and her one armed-companion taken another route? Sira stepped hesitantly from the security of the doorway in an effort to better see in the fading light.

"Why ever do you think they told such lies? And where did Osric and his two friends disappear to so fast?"

Sira's heart sank at the sound of the piping voice. The presence of the hobbit lass made it even less likely that she would find the Rohirrim woman alone. When the small group came near it seemed all her waiting had been for naught after all. Not only did the one-armed man and the hobbit accompany Sevilodorf, but also two young men of Lord Darien's party. Following them was the hulking form of the largest orc Sira had ever seen, who slouched along in muddy trousers with a shovel over his shoulder.

"Well," the hobbit's voice continued, "the best thing to do right now is to put it from our heads until after we've eaten a hot dinner. I have no idea how a man as round as Lord Valthaur manages to sustain himself for so many hours without a meal."

"All that bulk provides him with reserves to draw upon, Erin," Sev responded dryly. "But for once I agree with you. Nothing will be served by fury and argument. Indeed, our hope must be to convince Russbeorn of that."

"I get the feeling you are about to pass that task off on me again," Anardil said with a sigh.

Sira shrank into deeper shadows, scarcely daring to breathe as they passed. She even averted her eyes lest the one-armed man somehow sense her presence.

"Of course. You are the only one here with even a trace of diplomacy," the dark haired woman slowed her steps, "and you run faster than either of us."

The remark startled laughter from the two young men and set the hobbit to giggling, but Sira heard the man's rumbling protest that, even in anger, the Beorning would not strike a woman.

"Nevertheless, the others will need all the help they can get soothing Russ' temper. Listen, I'll keep the boys with me, and since Lugbac is finished privy-digging, I'll also take him in hand. Leave me at the apothecary, and you can go along to the stables to help Hal and Celebsul. I don't know what Master Banazîr wants; but if I don't go, that blasted apprentice will be at the stable yard within the hour."

The mention of the village apothecary set Sira's mind whirling. If she could reach the man's shop before Sevilodorf and her companions, she would be able to speak to the woman inside, out of sight of anyone save the elderly apothecary and his-slow speaking assistant. With the feeling that finally her luck had shifted, the barmaid pulled the shawl across her face. A quick glance to assure they had passed on, and she slipped around the building to ease into the alley paralleling the main road.

xxx

"Nmad overprotective man," Sev murmured when Anardil completed his list of instructions to Neal and Evan.

With effort she held her tongue as he concluded with a firm, "Most of all, do not under any circumstances let her convince you to go anywhere else."

Accepting the young men's assurances that they would not allow either the healer or the hobbit out of their sight, Anardil glanced at Lugbac, gave the orc a nod, and cast Sev a final admonishing look. Then he strode down the lane towards the stable yard.

"I think it's cute," Erin whispered, a wide grin rounding her cheeks into rosy apples.

"Do you? Then I'll have him start setting a guard on your every movement," Sev replied, then signalled the hobbit to wait a moment and turned to Lugbac. The huge orc's eyes were filled with confusion. "None of that now, Lugbac. I know Anardil said a lot but it's really very simple."

"It is?"

"Yes, he left you and Neal and Evan here to protect us."

Fifteen-year-old Evan grinned, while his brother Neal folded his arms across his chest, displaying the impressive set of muscles earned by his summer's work for their village blacksmith.

"To protect you?" the orc repeated, then drew himself up to his full height. "Aye, ah can do that. Nobody gets by Lugbac."

"Exactly. You sit right here on the doorstep and don't let anyone in. You don't touch them, just don't let them in."

"Without touching?" The orc frowned, looking at his huge, gristly fingers.

"No touching," Sev said firmly. "Gubbitch will be angry with both of us if you touch anyone, so don't get me in trouble."

At the mention of his chieftain, the orc quickly folded his hands together and squatted on the wooden step. "No touching, but nobody goes in."

"Good. Behave yourself and I'll bring you out some horehound drops. Master Banazîr always keeps a large supply." Giving a pat to the orc's granite shoulder and a nod to Erin to enter the apothecary's shop, Sev waved a hand at Neal and Evan. "Come along, gentlemen."

"If we're good, do we get horehound drops too?" asked Evan with a cheeky grin, and sprang to hold the door for Sev and his brother.

"I think that might be arranged," Sev responded, smiling. "I truly don't understand what trouble Anardil thinks I can possibly get into here."

Even as the words left her lips, it registered on Sev that they were not alone in the shop. The red haired beauty smiling coyly up at Banazîr's gawky, tongue-tied apprentice proved an only too familiar and unwelcome sight.

"Oh, Mistress Sevilodorf, how fortunate you happened by at this moment." The plump apothecary's face was wreathed in smiles as he eased himself from his stool.

"Do not trouble yourself, Master," Sev exclaimed hastily, knowing the difficulty the elderly man experienced, his arthritic joints audibly creaking each time he moved. "We will not take but a few moments of your time. Eberle," Sev indicated the distracted apprentice, "said that you wished to speak with me. However, if you are busy, it would be quite convenient for me to return in the morning."

"No, no," Banazîr exclaimed and held out a hand toward Sira. "The other business can indeed wait, but it is my belief that you might possess the best remedy for Miss Sira's problem."

When the girl allowed herself to be drawn shyly forward, it was all Sev could do to keep from saying she no longer dealt in that particular shade of hair colouring.

"Take off your gloves, my dear," urged the apothecary gently. "Mistress Sevilodorf is well versed in herbal remedies. You would do well to listen to any recommendations she makes for salves and soothing unguents."

The dismayed look Sira directed toward Neal and Evan made Sev instantly ashamed. From Anardil's accounts, the burns that the barmaid had suffered would have left considerable scarring. To a woman with Sira's vanity, such a condition would be almost worse than death.

Interrupting the older man's recitation of appropriate treatment for scarring, Sev said, "I promised these sturdy lads some horehound drops, and I know that Erin would love to take a peek at your selection of medicinal teas. Perhaps you might keep them entertained while I take Sira into your storeroom and examine her hands in privacy."

Neal's head went up like a hound catching scent of a wolf. But before the brawny, young blacksmith could voice his protest over the suggestion, Sev blew out an exasperated breath.

Hands on hips, she exclaimed, "For pity's sake, there are no doors or windows to the outside, and I'll leave the door open."

"Anardil made it very plain…" Neal's voice halted when the apothecary interrupted.

"Quite right, sir, quite right." Banazîr waved his cane toward door at the rear of the shop. "Her young man's left you to guard her, has he?"

Neal, temporarily bemused by the thought of anyone calling Anardil a young man and living to tell the tale, contented himself with nodding.

"You go right on back and have a look, if you've a mind to. A mite dusty perhaps, since my wife passed on no one's given it a real turn out; there's no other way in save past all of us."

"Thank you, sir. I'll take your word for it." Neal swept a bow to the old man then yelped as Sev elbowed him in the side.

"Believe him, but not me, will you? No horehound drops for this one, Banazîr, just the hobbit and Evan … oh, and six for the orc on the doorstep. Come, Sira, I haven't got all night."

"Yes, ma'am." Sira's meek tone earned her a suspicious look from Sevilodorf and a smile from the silent Eberle.

After lighting the lamp in the niche to the left of the door, Sev held out her hand. "Let me see, but don't take off the gloves, yet."

With a quick glance over the woman's shoulder, Sira complied. Gently turning the girl's hands, Sev asked, "Do you always wear the lace mitts?"

"Usually." Sira shrugged. "They hide the scars and keep the busybodies from asking too many questions."

"Did the Healers of Minas Tirith tell you to wear gloves once the scars matured?"

Sira nodded.

"Lace?"

"No, they said kidskin. But I didn't have the funds to buy more than one pair."

"They would get rather spoiled doing the work you do." Sev began to carefully tug off Sira's gloves.

"Nothing wrong with my job." Sira sucked in a breath as the mitts caught on an uneven patch of skin.

"No, 'tis honest work. Work you need your hands for, so it would be in your best interest to follow their suggestion. See the cracking?" Sev traced a finger lightly along the ridge of a scar. "Good gloves will prevent that - a size smaller than you're used to; keeps pressure on the skin and smoothes out the scars."

"I told you I don't have the funds."

Sira tried to jerk her hand away from the ticklish touch. However, Sev merely tightened her grip and continued her examination.

"Less expensive than losing the use of your hands. They might be cheaper in the City. I'll have Alfgard order several pair. You can discuss payment with him, but they will be here in a week. Whether you choose to wear them or not is up to you." Sev released the girl's hands and met her eyes. "Meanwhile, heated lotions and massage: they soften the skin and help the scar tissue stretch."

"Why would you do this for me?" Sira squinted, unable to understand such kindness, particularly from a woman with whom she had often been at overt odds.

"It is what I am trained to do. The one thing I am useful for." Sev lifted her chin and levelled a stern look. "Now, if that is all, I would like to see what the Master wishes to speak to me about and return to the stable yard. It's been a long day, and tomorrow bodes to be no better."

"Wait, I've something I must tell you."

Now that the moment to speak had arrived, Sira found she did not know what words to use that would convince the woman before her. In a rush, she spilt the little she knew.

"Margul is here. I saw him in the woods on the edge of town."

"Margul?"

Sira's eyes were huge in the dim light. "The one who strangled that girl in Minas Tirith. Who spied on you with Cullen."

"Why would he be here?"

"Whatever the reason you can be sure it's not good for any of us. He doesn't like loose ends lying about." Sira clutched her shawl about her like a woollen shield. "But everyone thinks I'm trying to get even with him, that it's all just spite. But it's not. I know what I know; he's skulking around in disguise for so no one will recognise him while he gets the job finished."

"What job?"

"Me. Cullen. For all I know, you. He was watching you for some reason last spring. And he's not one to give up easy." Sira leant forwarded and pleaded in a breathless torrent, "If you tell them, they'll listen. I can't take it, not knowing if he's coming for me. Promise me, you'll tell them. Make them go look. But he's a sneaky one and evil, so tell them to be careful … and only tell those you know you can trust. Cullen said no one could be trusted. He said Margul has powerful friends in this village."

Seeing the wide-eyed look on Sevilodorf's face, Sira heard her own words echoing shrilly in her ears. How loud had her voice raised with increasing desperation? Who else may have overheard? Mouthing a silent 'please' to the healer woman, Sira yanked her shawl over her hair and fled towards the street. She almost fell headlong as she tripped over the leg of the orc in the doorway.

Instantly Lugbac caught the girl's arm with one hand and set her back upright. Then he stared in horror at his own action and let go of Sira as if she were a burning log.

"Sorry, missus, didn't mean to touch yer."

The redhead glanced back for an instant then ran swiftly down the road.

Trembles shook the big orc's body when Sev, Erin and the young men emerged from the shop. "Ah didn't mean to touch 'er. She tripped. Stopped 'er fallin' is all."

Sev rested a hand on the orc's arm. "It's all right, Lugbac. You did well. Here's your reward."

A grin capable of slicing steel appeared on the orc's face. He grabbed the bag that Sev held out, thrust in his fingers, pulled out a horehound drop, which he then threw into his mouth and chomped into fragments.

Neal watched in awe. "You're supposed to suck them."

"Why?" Lugbac asked, a second of the sweetened lozenges following the path of the first.

"To soothe your throat and prevent coughs."

"Yup." Lugbac grinned, brown syrup sticking to his teeth. "An' they work." He took a deep breath and exhaled a powerful spicy aroma. "See, no cough."

The youngsters laughed and began cheerfully goading Lugbac to eat another one, this time tossing it higher before catching it. Yet Sev watched with only part of her attention, the rest of her mind absorbed with Sira's troubling news. Whoever Margul was, he remained a faceless shadow on her horizons. However, there were currents she could not plumb on her own, in the depths of Sira's fear. And she had seen true terror in the barmaid's eyes.

"Come gentlemen," said Sev, as Lugbac crunched another horehound drop to powder. "The hour is late and I'm ready for my supper."

xxx

_Alfgard's Household_

Bear minding, Anardil concluded, was not an activity that suited his disposition. No matter what Sev believed, the honeyed words of reason pouring from the mouth of Celebsul were far beyond his capabilities, or his patience. Leave to him the shadows and the less diplomatic paths for extracting information and solutions to the problems of the kingdom. He felt as trapped within the confines of this polished sitting room as Russ appeared to be. The giant's forehead wept tears of sweat, and his beard revealed flashes of angry white teeth while he expressed his disgust at the day's events.

"Lies and deceit, deceit and lies!" the big man boomed. "Courts and laws and judges - bah! Their decrees will not take an innocent life. No matter what these men of law decide, I shall keep Nik safe."

Celebsul replied quickly that others would testify Nik's innocence, to which Russ stormed on regardless, "If all Gondor rises up to swear his guilt - I will not deliver him to false justice. The wilderness is wide, and I know the ways of it."

The elf's next response came too softly for Anardil to hear from his post near the door. The only apparent result was a moderation of tone, but not temper.

"Whatever happens," rumbled Russ, "this is my decree: from the moment we leave this place, you and you -." He jabbed a thick finger at Darien, then Horus, then towards Carrick's and Bevin's startled faces. "And you and you will never cross my path again. If you do, you shall face my justice, and it shall be swift. Thus for all your men. So I winnow the chaff from the wheat."

In the jangling silence that followed, Carrick and Bevin stared with almost wounded expressions, while Darien's features went stiff and pale, a muscle in his cheek tightening in some complex mix of emotions. Horus merely looked gravely sad. Celebsul briefly pinched his nose in a gesture oddly human for an elf, and then resumed speaking in quiet earnestness.

Meanwhile, Darien pivoted to face Carrick and Bevin sternly. In a tight voice he said, "Find Osric and those two idiots, I don't care what tavern or wench's bed they're in, and bring them back here - now."

The two men sped hastily away, leaving Darien to Horus' guardianship once more. Anardil tried to follow the separate conversations, but other thoughts distracted him, and his mind was more than half occupied with the question of how much longer Sev would be. He kept one eye upon the opening into the hall and the other on Russ.

After a few more minutes, the combination of Elvish counsel and the steady repetition of common sense by both Halbarad and Alfgard of Rohan finally appeared to be having a calming effect on the wild-haired Beorning. Either that or he was temporarily content with having startled Darien and his men half out of their wits. It was to be hoped that whatever wisdom Horus spoke would soon work similar magic upon the aggrieved Silverbrook Lord.

Oil upon boiling water, Anardil reflected glumly, while the important questions remained unasked. Why had those men changed their story? Or rather, who had helped them rephrase their narratives? Nothing said today was strictly a lie, but the hidden meanings within their choice of words led those who heard to believe only the worst. The convenient gaps of memory left spaces for listeners to fill, none to Nik's benefit. Furthermore, to whom but the most sheltered soul would not Nik's twisted features supply an all too common nightmare, the memories of war just past. In Anardil's view, the language was too carefully chosen, the moments of forgetfulness too obvious. Granted he had a suspicious nature, but no one he could discover would accredit Osric with the abilities of a great manipulator.

Stilling fingers that tapped out an impatient rhythm on the arm of his chair, he watched blank faced as Darien's composure slipped once more. Features taut with anger, the nobleman jabbed the rigid index finger of one hand into the palm of the other, again driving futile anger against each dismaying point. Hopefully, once tempers were soothed and the initial frustrations washed away, there would be time to plan their counterattack for the morrow and to delve into speculation as to who had thus far piped the tune to which they danced. A tune they must alter if they were to emerge from this contest with Nik's life.

Catching Halbarad's eye, Anardil nodded toward the entryway. More than enough time had passed for Sev to discuss whatever request the village herbalist wished to make. One thing this company did not need, was for Sevilodorf of Rohan to discover additional trouble. Never should he have allowed himself to be persuaded to leave her in the care of two callow youths, a thick-witted orc and a hobbit lass who stood only waist high to most men.

Halbarad rolled his eyes toward the hearth where Celebsul and Alfgard had joined forces with Horus and appeared to be somehow managing to persuade both Darien and the Beorning to finally sit and merge their frustrations. As Russ' large frame bent onto a bench, the Ranger Captain flicked his fingers to release his friend from his post.

But a short reprieve it proved to be, for at that moment, the wide main doors burst open. Anardil stood as they admitted the laughing figure of the curly haired hobbit lass and the brawny young smith.

"Have a horehound drop, Anardil." Erin held out a small bag with a giggle that set Neal to smirking with secret laughter. "They're good for everything that ails you."

"Everything?" Anardil questioned.

"If there's anything they're not good for I can't think what it might be," Neal responded. "Master Banazîr named every ailment I've ever heard of, and several I never knew existed."

Erin drew herself up and intoned in a voice amazingly like that of the aging apothecary, "Syrup made of the green fresh leaves and sugar is a most singular remedy against coughs and wheezing of the lungs. A wonderful poultice in the event of snakebite is produced from a combining of the broad leaves of plantain and those of wild horehound."

As the little hobbit dissolved into a spasm of giggles, Anardil smothered a grin. From his months of recuperation, he was all too familiar with the abilities of the Healers of Gondor to engage in long-winded recitations upon the curative properties of a never-ending variety of plant life.

"I am quite certain that Sev matched the good master, verse for verse."

"That she did, sir," snorted Neal. In a falsetto that bore no resemblance in the slightest to Sev's rolling tones, the young man said, "Are you aware, Master, that if infused in new milk it serves as a treatment for cankerworm?"

"Cankerworm?"

"An insidious pest that destroys apple orchards," Sev answered, appearing in the doorway with a smiling Evan. "And 'tis jealousy that causes these two to laugh, for they alone possessed no knowledge to add to the store."

Darien looked up from rubbing his face with both hands, and mustered a weary smile for his young comrades. "Ah, then our Evan had his mite to add as well?"

"Aye, the lad delighted the master with a new recipe for an ointment concocted of horehound and lard," Sev explained. "A fine treatment for wounds, he says."

Evan nodded eagerly, "You remember, sir, that slash Bevin received last fall? Neal and I treated it with a poultice of ground horehound. Grows wild most places, so it's handy to find."

"Ah, yes, I remember that." Darien sat up, visibly trying to rearrange himself into a better humour. "And what have you there, Mistress Erin?"

"Oh, it's a lovely tea Master Banazîr concocted," Erin said, hastening forward with a small box in her hands. "Raspberry, rosehips, lemon grass and a few other things - it will make a splendid winter tonic, plus it tastes good. And it smells nice!"

Horus started, then smiled and bent down as the hobbit thrust the now-open box towards him.

"I think I should make some for all of us," Erin continued, next offering the box to Darien. "The aroma is refreshing, and I believe it would clear our heads. Plus -."

While the hobbit chattered on, Sev moved to shut the heavy wooden doors. There she tipped her head up to frown at Anardil.

"You weren't by any chance on your way to look for me, were you?"

"Of course not," Anardil denied. "Simply seeking a moment of escape from my duties as bear minder and lord pacifier."

"If I didn't know what an accomplished liar you are, I'd believe that." Unfastening the collar of her high-necked tunic, Sev exclaimed, "What I want to escape is all this finery. Come upstairs with me while I change."

"Gladly, my lady." A peal of laughter followed them up the stairs, muffling the thump of their tread. "Only moments ago, I would have sworn the room would burst into flames from the heated tempers, and the lass has them laughing already."

"'Twas you that said little dampens the spirits of a hobbit."

"Aye, and her ability to spread her lightness of spirit will be of great use tonight."

Sev sighed and her jaw tightened. "A simple matter. Is that not what Hal said? What has gone so wrong? Darien was fit to be tied by the lies, and Russ..." She shuddered.

"Were any lies truly told?"

"Of course, they lied," Sev froze with her hand on the latch to her room and stared up into his face. "Surely, you don't believe what those fools said. I've told you what happened in that cave. Nik did what he did to protect me."

Reaching around her, Anardil turned the handle and signalled her to enter. With a stubborn tilt of her chin, Sev complied.

She waited until he closed the door before asking, "Whose word do you believe?"

Anardil leaned against the door and replied, "Both." Before Sev could protest, he added, "And neither."

Clamping her mouth closed, Sev glared at him narrow eyed. With a muttered comment he was grateful not to hear clearly, she turned away and began working at the fastenings of her formal tunic. Once removed, she draped it across the back of a chair and selected a looser fitting garment from her pack to don. Steadfastly ignoring Anardil, she settled onto the bed and tugged off her half boots.

Experience had taught him that allowing her to work a problem through on her own would shorten the arguments. Thus, Anardil remained silent, his eyes wandering about the vaguely familiar room. Letting that awareness distract him, he realised someone had scattered miscellaneous bits and pieces about the place, to make it feel homely. Items included Sev's favourite mug, a small throw rug, an elvish embroidered cushion, a colourful hobbit-sized shawl, and on the windowsill several small, hand-carved figurines. Knowing Sev would never burden herself with such frippery, Anardil had to smile. That certainly explained Erin's huge pack; the hobbit lass had brought home with her.

His musings were interrupted by an exasperated exhale. "If I understand your point, what was spoken today was the truth. Only the truth told in such a way that many people would react unfavourably to the tale."

Anardil nodded and raised an eyebrow to encourage her to follow this idea to its logical conclusion.

"Devious man, forcing me to think on an empty stomach," Sev said. "Very well, it's as you are constantly telling me; words can be used as weapons, but…" She reached beneath the bed and drew forth a pair of simple slippers. "Who chose this arsenal? It seems too contrived for Osric. He never impressed…."

Sev stilled, statue-like, holding one shoe. "You think there's someone telling them what to say. Someone who wants this hearing to lead to a trial."

"Yes, love, I do."

"You've not told them this downstairs?"

"Not yet. I was waiting for emotions to stop interfering with thinking. Perhaps with Erin's help, and after a good dinner, we will be able to examine the situation more calmly."

Sev nodded at the sense behind such reasoning and slipped on her second shoe. "Then the conversation I just had with Sira is perhaps not as strange as I first thought."

"Sira? You swore you would not go anywhere but Master Banazîr's shop."

"Don't start hurling accusations at me. I didn't go to her. She came to me."

"I can't think of a single good reason Sira would have to search you out."

"Then think harder for she had two. One, her scars are not healing as they should."

Anardil winced. "I saw her hands when the burns were fresh. And the second reason?"

"She saw Margul last night."

"Last night?" Fingers briefly to his brow, Anardil muttered a curse at his own stupidity. He had seen the girl running into The Whistling Dog and assumed she was late returning from a meeting with her newest swain. "Why didn't she go to the Rangers? Or the Guards?"

"What? So they could laugh in her face and make rude comments about how the man abandoned her? No, Sira would not go to the Rangers."

"True enough." Anardil drew a quick breath, stepping into the familiar, detached role of an observer. "Tell me what she said."

With her usual pragmatism, Sev outlined the facts of Sira's report and state of mind in a swift economy of words. Given the implications behind this sighting of a man who was entirely too shadowed in mystery, Anardil found himself grateful for Sev's calm manner.

"We'll pass the word to Tarannon," he said. "Whether he believes Sira or not, he will at least look into it; Margul is, after all, a suspect in the murder of that woman in Minas Tirith. Meanwhile, we'll need to check the possibility it is Margul piping the tune to which Osric and his friends perform."

"Aye, but first some food. Erin would never forgive us if we tried to plan things on an empty stomach, and I really do not fancy arguing with a hungry bear."

"Mm, but first let me fortify myself on something a little more substantial."

"Anardil!"

Sev had no chance to fend off the grinning man before he wrapped her in his embrace and bent to apply a very thorough kiss. When done, he withdrew only enough to kiss her brow then leaned his forehead to hers.

"And what was that about?" asked Sev, still trying to regain her breath.

"Nothing," Anardil murmured into her hair. "Only that I'm glad to have such a practical woman at my side."

"Loof!" she snorted, and smacked his flat belly with the back of her hand, breaking their embrace.

But he merely laughed, and still chuckling they turned together and left the room.

xxx

During preparations for dinner, Russ roamed restlessly outside, his pipe clamped between his teeth and rapid puffs of smoke pulsing irately into the air. He still simmered as he had since the end of testimony, though the presence of Nik curbed the worst of the giant's fury. Some distance away, Darien and Horus leant against a wall, watching warily. A little further on, Neal and Evan squatted on their heels, whispering together, while Carrick and Bevin were conspicuous by their absences. Fresh air had seemed a good idea, but away from the hobbit's cheerful influence, tempers began fraying again.

When Russ' wandering brought him close to the men, his scowl spoke of murderous thoughts, but Nik surprised everyone - the little uruk stepped out of the shadows to wedge himself between Darien and Horus.

"Your men still hate me." Nik looked up sadly to the Lord of Silverbrook.

Sliding down the wall into a crouch, the tall man brought himself to a level where the orc could meet his eye without straining. "No, they don't, Nik. Not all of them. Probably the only one who harbours real animosity is Osric. Ham and Tom just go along with him because they know no better. Something must have happened while we've been here in the village. There was no indication that they would twist the truth at any point on our journey here. We'll find out what that is when Carrick and Bevin round them up."

Pulling the pipe from his mouth, Russ paused and glared down at Darien, "And if they don't find them?"

"They will. I still carry a quarter's worth of wages for those liars. They won't vanish without collecting their money."

"Unless they have already earnt enough to not miss what they are owed," Horus said quietly.

All eyes turned to the Haradrim, who shrugged. "Just speculation, as is everything until we can ask them."

Russ took a long draw on his pipe and blew out a stream of smoke. Then he growled, "What if they are not found before the hearing reconvenes? What then? You think I will trust Nik's fate to people who believe only what they wish to believe?"

Still crouching, Darien replied, "Horus is yet to testify, as is Sevilodorf. They will tell the truth clearly. And Evan." The man turned his attention to Nik. "You know he has come to accept you and will also speak truly. On my word, Bevin will bear no false witness."

"Your word means nothing to me," Russ retorted. "It is as trustworthy as your men."

Darien flinched, and stood swiftly. But he was unable to muster an argument against that. No one noticed the elf until he spoke from the shadows.

"Enemies win when allies fight amongst themselves. Let us stand side-by-side on this."

Russ wheeled then halted, eyes dark and brooding. "Do you still trust this Valthaur at his winnowing?"

However, Celebsul merely spread his hands before him. "Please, Russbeorn. Cool your emotions at least until after dinner, and grant our host a peaceful meal."

"Oh yes," Nik nervously concurred with the elf. "I'm more hungry now than sad or afraid. And food does not settle well on an angry stomach, Teach."

Despite himself, Russ could not stop a grunt of amusement at his small friend's hopeful smile - the student lecturing his tutor. From beneath heavy brows he then studied the ancient elf, doubtless turning further dour thoughts in his mind. Abruptly he grunted again.

"Very well, we shall eat." A large thumb extinguished the glow in the pipe's bowl. "And I will respect the courtesy of Alfgard's table."

That said, the Silverbrook men stood well aside when Russ and Nik sauntered indoors.

xxx

TBC ...


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven 

_October 25 Evening  
__Alfgard's Home_

Alfgard's hired men had already eaten and retired to work or quarters before the greying stable manager ushered his guests in to supper. As people shuffled for places about the long table, a metallic crash and jangling tinkle rang from the kitchen doorway.

"Please forgive a certain amount of disorder," Alfgard said with a wry grin. "Linnet is with the wife of one of my men - their son has the mumps, it seems."

Quiet chuckles punctuated the resumption of preparations to eat. No chair existed stout enough for Russ' great frame, so a heavy bench was found and placed at the foot of the table, where the Beorning would have ample elbow room. Missing were Osric, Tom and Ham, undoubtedly fuelling the fires of ignorance with more cheap ale at The Black Cauldron. Earlier Darien sent Carrick and Bevin to find the three miscreants, but they had yet to return.

Nik was also absent, but his disappearance held no dark significance; instead, Gubbitch had secured a whole roast chicken each for himself, Nik and Lugbac, and the three orcs had retired to the back porch to enjoy their bounty in properly orcish fashion.

Thus the company at supper consisted of an uneasy mix of seven men, one Rohirrim woman, one elf, one hobbit lass, and one great, brooding bear-man. Yet the mood over the hearty if simple meal proved far brighter than anticipated, and indeed revealed a hitherto unexpected wiliness in their host.

Leaning toward Alfgard, Sev said softly, "I fear you have been keeping bad company, sir."

The Rohirrim's blue eyes sparkled with merriment. "Other than your own presence at my table, what would lead you to believe that, Sevil?"

Halbarad seated at Alfgard's other elbow choked, while beside Sev, Anardil grinned unabashedly. Ignoring them both, Sev spoke on.

"You've become a devious man."

"I have?" the trader replied wide-eyed.

"Yes, a most calculating observer would you not agree, Anardil?"

Realising now what Sev had in mind, Anardil winked and grinned. "I don't believe I'd go quite so far in maligning Alfgard's good name, but he has made creditable use of his resources."

"Thank you, sir. That's my Nora. She's a treat, isn't she?" Alfgard exclaimed with a proud smile toward the opposite end of the long table.

Where Darien and Russ previously avoided each other as completely as the space of one seat allowed, that seat now held the vivacious, curly-headed form of Alfgard's ten-year-old daughter. Her dimpled smile and piping voice almost instantly reduced Darien and Horus to simple-minded grins, but even Russ fell under her charms. At the moment, the huge man bent to sketch something on the table for her with one massive finger, while the girl knelt in her chair to eagerly follow whatever tale the Beorning told.

"However I cannot claim the honour of convincing the lass to join us." Alfgard winked genially. "'Twas her own idea. 'Tis my belief she's trying to steal a march on her brothers. Sitting at the table with such company will give her the right to lord it over them all for a few days."

As easy laughter rippled among them, those at Alfgard's end of the table noted that a final touch completed the circle of good spirits beyond. Erin had been seated at Russ' other hand, where she encouraged the child at every turn, which left Celebsul to quietly and genteelly keep his tablemates' cups filled with cheer.

"Whatever her reasoning," Sev said, "it was very good of her to take her mother's place. I do hope Linnet is not delayed too long."

"Now, don't you go worrying yourself." Alfgard waved a half-chewed drumstick in admonition. "Linnet saw the boy earlier and said the lad was doing fine. He'll be up and about in a day or too. She only went this evening to soothe the parents. Boy's their first."

"Ah, it's always hardest with the first one," Sev remarked sagely.

Peace assured by dimples and golden curls, enjoyment of a good meal could be pursued in earnest. The meats and soups were long gone, and pies began to receive serious inroads, when at last the front door thumped and a brisk feminine step trod in the hall.

"Modor," their little hostess cried suddenly and dashed from the table.

The men rose respectfully as Linnet hurried into the room. Nora tugged at her mother's hand and began to blurt introductions as quickly as her tongue would allow, making Linnet laugh.

"Peace, child!" she cried, blue eyes alight with laughter. "I met everyone when they first arrived. Let the poor men finish their pie."

Nevertheless, her gaze fixed with a startled blink on the spectacle of Russbeorn's enormous form filling the entire far end of the table, but she immediately smiled to the man's surprisingly gentle bow of greeting.

Meanwhile, Alfgard accepted his wife's cloak. "Give your mother a chance to sit down," he said, playfully tugging at his daughter's curls. "Run and fetch her a fresh pot of water, lass, and tell Cook to fill her a plate."

"There is no need, Nora. Klarath and his wife insisted I accept their hospitality," Linnet responded.

"But Modor, Cook made the best apple mortrews. Don't you want one? Mistress Erin's had three." Nora nodded toward the table where the hobbit sat.

"Run along and tell her to save me one, I'll come to the kitchen in a few moments."

With a nod and a bobbing curtsy in the direction of the guests, the girl skipped away.

Allowing her husband to escort her to the chair Nora had so recently occupied, Linnet said, "Pray accept my apologies for my absence."

Her sturdy form managed to look positively diminutive next to Russbeorn's massive frame, as the big man resumed his bench at the foot of the table beside her.

"No apologies are necessary, madam," replied Darien, retaking his seat. "Master Alfgard explained your call to a child's sickbed." Then in puzzlement he added, "Mumps, I believe he said. Is it serious?"

"Aye, mumps is what we call it in the Mark. A common childhood ailment," Linnet replied. "But not serious - though I dare say his parents despair of any rest."

"Aye," Sev agreed with a knowing nod. "It is hard when the little ones suffer, for they can't understand why _modor_ and _fæder_ can't banish their ills with a touch."

Glancing to the healer woman, Linnet asked, "'Tis called bolgur here, is it not, Mistress Sevil?"

When Sev agreed that it was, Evan leaned forward and said, "We had a few cases at home in Silverbrook. Perhaps five families, as I recall, spread like a crop of weeds. Most recently the miller's children."

"Evan is interested in the healing arts, Mistress Linnet," explained Darien.

In approval, Sev noted, "Which I am grateful to say his elders are wise enough to encourage."

"A noble occupation for a young man," Linnet responded with a smile for the youth.

Bolder now that he had the attention of both women, Evan asked, "I wonder what you gave the little fellow to ease him."

"You truly want to know?" Linnet cocked her head, and then gladly gave a recitation of the simple treatments she prescribed.

Evan nodded slowly, eyes intent as he drank in every word. When the Rohirrim woman finished, he thanked her and said, "I'll write your treatment down before I sleep tonight. One never knows when that will become useful."

Then, in return, Evan offered hearsay knowledge of various herbals he knew the goodwives of Silverbrook used. Beside him, his brother Neal shook his head in good-natured humour, but said nothing to dissuade the youth.

Eventually pausing, Evan scrunched his face anxiously. "I've heard mumps has some truly frightening affects on grown folk. Especially men. It can make certain things … wither. Have you heard so, Mistress Linnet?"

"Indeed I have, Evan." Linnet's blond eyebrows crept nearly to her hairline, while Sev hid a smile behind her hand. "The effects are said to be ugly to behold, but functionally harmless. However, that is hardly fit discussion for the dinner table."

"No, missus." The youth blushed but grinned nonetheless. "But I reckon it is well to learn wherever I have the chance."

"You are a wise lad, Evan. Now, if all will excuse me, I had best go to the kitchen before Nora comes to fetch me."

As Linnet left, the young man turned back to the remains of his pie, which his brother had just begun sliding from his plate. Dodging a quick backhand, Neal then leaned towards Evan, eyes widening.

"Wither?" he asked.

"Oh, aye." Evan nodded emphatically, forking a chunk of pie. "Just like prunes, so I hear."

Neal swallowed and sank in his seat, while nearby, Halbarad blanched and Russ suddenly found need to cough into his napkin. Before the conversation could stray any further, the front door thumped again, and the missing men, Carrick and Bevin, appeared shrugging off their cloaks.

"There you are!" exclaimed Darien. "There's food and plates, if you sit. Did you find Osric and the boys?"

"Not a hair." Carrick's dour tone struck warning as he thumped gracelessly into an empty chair. "Thought sure we'd find 'em in the taproom at The Black Cauldron."

Darien stared across the table. "Did you check their rooms?"

Bevin shook his head while helping himself to roast pork. "Vanished into thin air, the three of 'em."

With a growling sigh, Darien pushed his empty plate away and dropped his face into one hand. "Blast the fools!"

"Fellow there said -." Carrick interrupted himself to break a thick chunk of bread. "They was in earlier, but left." He cast a puzzled look at his captain. "Said they were talking to that law lord's clerk, what's-his-name with the eyebrows."

"Khint?" blurted Halbarad, and scowled as he and Anardil exchanged glances. "What would Valthaur's clerk want with those…" His frown evaporated into a look of angry puzzlement.

Straightening in his chair, Anardil said, "That orc at the Cauldron, Lorgarth, he said Khint spoke to them before. At the time I thought nothing of it, since I presumed he aided his employer in organising the hearing."

"Organising?" a sudden deep voice growled.

All heads turned towards the living thundercloud that was Russbeorn. His deep-set eyes fixed Anardil with a stare that should have melted the man on the spot.

Anardil caught himself beginning to fidget, and nodded tightly. "I fear I know as little as you, Russ, about the doings of laws and courts."

"ConFOUND them all!" Darien cried, and flung his napkin onto the table. "Whose words did they use, Carrick? For they did not speak their own. Poetry, for pity's sake - Osric nearly spouted poetry in court, and the man can barely ask for a pint of stout without growling like a fat hound."

Carrick simply stared at his lord, mouth full of bread, for he knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Russbeorn, however, seemed to broaden ominously in the lamplight, and he turned his deep gaze on Darien.

In a subterranean rumble, he said, "Speak clearly what my ears think they hear. Are these hounds of yours answering to another master?"

"I don't know." Darien's outrage went out like a gust of passing wind. "So help me, I don't know."

In the taut silence, Sev lightly touched Anardil's hand, to which he ducked his head and nodded briefly. Taking her fingers in his, he looked around the table.

"There is another matter," the former Ranger said, "which requires examination now. The Whistling Dog barmaid, Sira, claims she saw the man, Margul, in town yesterday."

When Darien sighed, Halbarad groaned, and Erin dropped her fork with a clatter, Russ' expression grew even darker.

"Who is this Margul?" he asked. "Another miscreant?"

"Worse," Halbarad replied sourly. "An insidious weed whose tendrils seem to spring up everywhere."

In explanation, Sev said, "He is, or rather was a wealthy merchant of Minas Tirith, who took an interest in the orc-rights hearing."

"He's just plain no good," added Erin tartly. "Why, he duped Sira into thinking he would marry her and he set that poor simple Cullen up like some sort of gentleman, when all the time Cullen was nothing but his errand boy. He had the lad sneaking around like a footpad, spying on Sevi and the rest of us before and, for all we know, during the first orc hearing. The very nerve!"

Russ' heavy head lowered between his massive shoulders. "Spying to what purpose?"

Halbarad grimaced. "We never found out. All we knew is what Sira reported, that he opposed any legal rights for orcs and, if the barmaid is to be believed, he was looking for means to throw a stick in the spokes of the process. Fortunately he never succeeded."

Brow furrowed in thought, Anardil turned his fork in his hand. "What was odd is the rather ill-favoured woman who later turned up dead in his house. Cullen said she was some sort of lackey, much as he was. But she died with her purpose a mystery, and Margul immediately disappeared."

Sev added, "Beforehand, Sira learned about this strange woman, and naturally being jealous, she confronted her, which became an ugly physical skirmish. So when the woman was found murdered in Margul's own house, Sira feared she might be next, and still fears." 

"The saddest part was Cullen, though," Erin said, mouth primly set." He was raised the son of good, honest farmers, but that Margul put high and mighty thoughts in his head. That boy tried to put on such airs around town, all dressed in fancy clothes that Margul bought him - and the things he said! Why, he spouted nonsense such as I know his father never taught him, trying to sound like a man of the world. Sounded like a mocking bird, is what."

"A mocking bird…" Anardil stared at Halbarad, who gazed back with a look of dawning realisation.

"By Isildur's beard," Halbarad breathed. "Is he at it again?"

CRASH! The impact of a heavy bench hitting the floor almost stopped every heart. Like a mountain, Russ loomed over them all. For an instant the breath rumbled in his chest as if Mount Doom were feeling indigestive, then the big man visibly restrained himself, though his nostrils flared.

"Master Alfgard," he said, with vast and controlled courtesy, "Please excuse me from your fine table. I must go hunt a louse." Casting a dour glance at Darien, he added, "No, make that three lice."

With that, the Beorning ducked his head and strode from the room, the gust of his passing flickering the lamps as he went. The front door boomed into silence.

Seconds later, Nik's sharp voice cried from the rear of the house, "Teach, where are you going? … Teach?"

A splintering wooden crash was the response.

As one, Anardil and Halbarad bolted for the back door, and nearly flattened Cook as they went. The two men slid to a halt in the darkened yard, to find Nik standing with a baffled mien, while Gubbitch stared down at Lugbac. The huge orc cowered behind the rain barrel with his eyes gleaming in fear, and he waggled one clawed finger towards the back fence.

"It weren't me, I promise!" he cried. "I weren't anywhere near."

A Beorning-sized section of Alfgard's back fence lay strewn in splinters. As two of Alfgard's sentries peered warily around the building, Halbarad plunged both hands into his own hair.

"Please tell me I can wake up now," he said.

Anardil clapped the Ranger captain on the shoulder. "Keep an eye on things, Hal, and … do something Ranger-ish. I'll be back."

Hal dropped his hands and stared after his suddenly-departing friend. "Where are you going?"

"Bear hunting," drifted the reply.

When Anardil vanished through the shattered fence, Halbarad could only hope he knew what he was doing.

Suppressing a groan, the Ranger looked around at the curious faces now appearing from the stable yard's bunkhouse. Then a metallic jangle announced the arrival of two of the Gondorian guards. Hal had some explaining and quick thinking to do.

xxx

Words. Streams, rivers, torrents of words, the big man's ears still rang with them, more than he had heard spoken in the entirety of the past year. The Ranger captain, the elf and even their Rohirrim host had yammered at him until he finally stopped answering just to get some peace. And what had talk gained? Treachery and deceit.

"CONFOUND them all!" Russ roared. His shout echoed in the darkness, startling a dog to frantic yapping.

Nobody peered out from the silent houses, however, and he strode on. He was weary of voices and houses and the stench of too many people living too close together - how could anyone bear such a life? It was time to be done with it all, and he intended to end it now. He would find the truth, and he would bring it back dangling from one massive hand, if he had to. Those he left behind feared what he would do, for none truly knew him. All the same, if fear kept them away while he tended to his task, so be it.

Whether Carrick and Bevin had made an honest search for the missing men, he could not trust. After all, what reason did they have to inform against their own comrades? How much easier would it be to turn a blind eye to their old friends' whereabouts, and come back with yet another lie to explain their desertion? All of them had been orc hunters together, sworn to avenge the deaths of friends and kinsmen in the blood of orc-kind. Russ did not believe those hunters would give up their comrades-in-arms for the sake of a single, undersize Uruk-hai. He did not believe they fully shared in Lord Darien's apparent change of heart.

"No," he rumbled. "A warg does not change its pelt."

The big man met no one on the narrow, silent ways of the village, or if anyone saw his towering form, they swiftly shrank from sight. Let them, for he did not wish interference. Soon the acrid scent of spilt ale and other, less savoury odours told him he had reached The Black Cauldron. A musky pong marked the shacks where lived the orcs who worked in the tavern. If Carrick and Bevin spoke truly, this pub was the last place the three missing men had been seen. As he prowled around the building in the shadows, Russ could see clearly through the tavern's lighted windows. But of course, he spied no trace of his quarry in the taproom or kitchen. He paused, listening keenly to the muffled sounds of voices. None were those he sought.

Well then. Perhaps other senses were called for. It was chancy, perhaps, but his temper had cooled to steady purpose. Where human means did not suffice, others must do. He decided to risk the change. Retreating into a dark stand of trees behind the tavern, he bent and began to remove his boots.

xxx

Anardil pushed his long stride with growing anxiety, the echo of a familiar distant roar lingering in his mind. He reminded himself that Beornings were peaceful folk, and that no one ever heard of a bear-man attacking an innocent person. However, he also remembered that black night before the cave-in that nearly took Sev's and Nik's lives, when one of Darien's men foolishly attacked the giant shape-shifter. That imprudence cost the fellow his life. Would Osric be stupid enough to goad Ham and Tom into violence, especially to save his own skin? Depending on how much liquor the threesome found by now, the outcome was anybody's guess.

And Anardil hated guessing.

Within moments, he arrived at The Black Cauldron, but a swift, silent circuit of the building told him two things: Osric, Ham and Tom were not to be seen, and Russ had likewise disappeared.

However, something turned Anardil's head when he rounded the back of the tavern, clinging to shadows as a Ranger ought. Some ancient instinct piqued his notice, and he stepped back to look - straight at an enormous pair of boots. They almost looked like two horseshoe kegs standing there beneath a birch sapling, an equally huge set of clothes folded neatly beside them. Anardil's stomach dropped straight to his feet.

"Master Celebsul," he whispered to the silence. "I could really use you, about now."

He also remembered that Celebsul had been the only person who could still Russ' wrath when in bear-form, and he shivered to think what the alternative might have been. With Russ changed now, would the giant still think in logical human terms? But then again, it became increasingly apparent that Russ lived by his own logic, while that of ordinary men often made precious little sense to him.

"And it makes sense to me?" Anardil muttered.

Grimly he moved on, wondering how one followed a giant bear in the dark of early night. He soon found the matter fairly simple - one merely followed the trail of hysterically barking house dogs.

xxx

A knobby spur of pine digging into his back, Odbut listened to the baying hounds. Head turning carefully and moon-sheened eyes scanning the shadows, the orc waited for some sign the dogs had been loosed for a purpose. Sharp teeth bared in a silent grin at the thought of a quick battle - something to loosen the muscles and set the blood stirring. He'd been idle too long. Set to fetch and carry for stinkin' tarks like a _snaga_.

Flexing his fingers, he left a weeping scar in the pine's bark. The time had almost come when his master could take up his old life, and Odbut would be allowed to return to tasks he was better suited for - just a few more days of watching every word, every movement.

The frantic barking faded away to the south, and Odbut gave a small hiss of regret before turning his attention once again to the road visible through the overhanging branches. The task before him was not worthy of his abilities. There was small hope his quarry would dare to fight the trap Odbut had been given to spring. The only pleasure to be gained would be the brief enjoyment of the tark's fear. Soon though, his master promised he would be allowed real sport.

Slow warmth grew as Odbut made plans for the other he had been set to watch: the female. Once before, she had escaped his master, proving far wilier than expected. Perhaps she was worthy of special handling. It had been years since he had taken a breeder. Would his master allow it?

The soft plod of boots brought him back to the task at hand, and he crept from beneath the draping branches. The pale, moon-faced tark weaving past set him to salivating. No good for a fight, there was only one true use for such soft meat. But mindful of his master's instructions, he kept his voice low and without threat.

"Ho there, Master Cullen."

Eyes gleaming with inner delight at the rabbit-like scream and the fear written plainly on the young man's countenance, Odbut stepped forward with arms open to show he held no weapon. As if he would need one against such a creature.

"Just yer ol' friend, Odbut, Master Cullen. Naught to be fright of."

xxx

Many things Russ scented as his big paws padded along. The musk of autumn leaves, the sourness of a tomcat's mark, the interesting tangle of aromas in a trash pit, and once the delicious fragrance of baked apples. He actually paused and champed his jaws over that one, for he did so love baked apples with lots of honey and cinnamon. Clean linens drying on a line, the pungent warmth of a horse, the earthy, piquant smell of a hog pen.

And men, everywhere he tasted the odour of men; men who were healthy, men who were ill, men who were drunk or overly fed on onions. As a librarian thumbs through a sheaf of pages, so the great bear noted and passed over the aromas of his travels. He knew the smell of those he sought, had smelled it enough over the past days' farce, a mixture of sweat and beer and just plain not enough bathing. Dirty people, he thought, seldom had tidy minds.

Then another aroma electrified every hair he owned, and the ruff rose stiffly on his neck: orc. He knew that bitter musk from many years of fighting the goblins of the high passes, and while he accepted the acquaintance of Nik's local orcish friends, he remained wary of the scent of a stranger. A moment's reflection identified the smell as one he had sniffed at the shacks behind The Black Cauldron, and thus the orc must be one of the workers there. Whoever it was, Russ had no desire to make a closer acquaintance. Best he turn away now, before the orc's own beast-like senses detected his presence.

However, something else caught his attention; voices. Two voices, one the harsh, guttural tones of an orc using the Common Tongue, and the other the unsteady notes of a young man. Against his better judgement, the great bear paused, keen ears sharply tuned.

xxx

Cullen closed his eyes tightly, then grimaced and stammered, "Y-y-you startled me, Odbut."

Swallowing desperately, the farm lad wished Sira had never told him the orc was connected with Margul. After a sleepless night reviewing every word he ever spoke to Odbut, he had congratulated himself on the fact that never once did he make mention of any dealings with the mysterious silver-eyed man. But now, face to face with the creature once more, he felt an overwhelming urge to babble pleas of contrition, that he would never whisper a word of Margul ever in his whole life. Of course, to do so would be to admit that he knew the orc had been in Margul's employ and might be now. That, Cullen would prefer not to speak aloud.

"Didn't mean to surprise you, Master Cullen." Odbut stepped closer and gave an open-mouthed grin. "I thought we were friends."

For the first time, the youth noticed how carefully filed the sharp teeth were, how the orc had an uncomfortable habit of cocking his head so it sort of hunched into one shoulder. Unable to stop a small whimper, his high-pitched reply sounded unnaturally loud in the darkness.

"Of course, we're friends, Odbut. It's only th… th.. that I was thinking so hard."

Odbut nodded, and his eyes shone with pleasure. The tark's fear was palpable now; the ripe tang of sweat, the convulsive swallowing and the way his eyes darted about seeking escape - far more entertaining than fishing.

"Lots to be thinkin' about. Lots of excitement in town."

Cullen dragged his eyes from the orc's gleaming teeth and tried to adopt a nonchalance totally at odds with the sweat beading his brow. "Oh, I wouldn't know."

"Why, Master Cullen, thought you'd know all the news. Your father being so outspoken and all." The orc stepped even closer and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "Be a shame if your father came to any harm. Or that pretty little sister of yours."

Gaping like a newly caught trout, Cullen could not find breath to respond. Here was his worst nightmare come true. Not only was his own life to be held forfeit for his former foolishness - and he had never been so acutely aware of a physical presence as he was of the orc looming mere inches away - but his family's lives were in jeopardy as well.

Finally, he choked, "What does he want?"

"He?" Odbut cocked his head and asked in a low grumble, "Why, who do you mean?"

"Your master." Cullen could not halt the words spilling from his lips. "Sira told me. She remembered Minna saying your name."

The orc chuckled low. The female was indeed worthy of his attentions, but business before pleasure.

"He's your master, too. And it would be best if you didn't forget it. There's no telling who might be hurt otherwise."

Cullen moaned again. There was no way out of this trap. He had known this since the meeting before the Grand Council in Minas Tirith. Now he only prayed he could escape from this moment unscathed.

Head bowed, defeated, the young man said, "What does he want me to do?"

Odbut reached out and caressed Cullen's cheek with a sharp nail. "Nothing too taxing. You attend the hearing tomorrow and look for a signal from the judge's clerk, Khint. You know him? If you see it, you come running straight to me. If you mess this one up, Margul swears he'll kill you."

Having the threat spoken so clearly was almost a relief after all the months of imagining when and how it would come. "What kind of signal?"

xxx

Margul! Khint! The great bear needed to hear no more. Behind every puppet was hidden a puppeteer, and Russ knew but one sure way to uncover him - simply grab the puppet. So he decided to do just that.

Cullen never heard an answer to his question. His gaze riveted just over the orc's shoulder – or actually, over his head – and a huge, coughing roar shattered the darkness. Odbut could not react because he was too busy flipping end over end from the blow of a huge, clawed paw.

The orc's howl cut short when he impacted the ground, knocking the air from his lungs, but Cullen's shriek immediately took over. His scream soared to piercing decibels while he frantically back-pedalled from the horror of an enormous bear leaping from the shadows. A second roar coughed from slavering jaws as the bear's massive weight pounced and pinned the fallen orc to the ground. Thereupon Cullen promptly tripped, fell, and sucked a second breath to scream like a helpless girl.

For the bear was changing, impossibly, horribly _changing_. The great shape writhed and undulated as if seen through the fumes of an unseen fire, and it elongated and stretched and shrank and grew and its hair – its thick hair seemed to suck back _into_ pallid skin. Then Cullen sat on his arse with no voice left to do anything but wheeze, while the hugest, hairiest and most naked man he had ever seen in his life picked Odbut up as if weightless.

Remarkably, the orc still lived. In fact, he lived rather loudly. Howling once more, Odbut kicked and flailed like a frog plucked from a pond, there at the end of the giant's hard-muscled arm.

That is, until the shape-shifter jerked the orc close to his own bearded face and bellowed, "SHUT UP!"

The following silence was simply marvellous. The giant's vast, muscular chest rose and fell with the wind of his exertion, while he took stock of the situation. His lip curled beneath his beard as his deep gaze raked the now-compliant orc, still dangling captive from one hand, and then the fallen youth staring up from the ground.

When the giant took a step towards Cullen, the terrified youth scrunched his eyes tight shut. Nonetheless, Cullen could plainly feel the crushing weight of a massive foot as it pinned him firmly to the earth.

"Now," rumbled the shape-shifter in deep, cavernous tones, "you will tell me all you know about this Margul person, or I will pull off your arms and legs. Who wants to talk, first?"

A helpless mewling sound seemed all Cullen could produce. Odbut meanwhile merely made strangling noises as his clothing tightened in the massive fist that held him.

"What's that?" the big man growled. "I can't hear you."

Odbut clawed at the giant's imprisoning hand, but of course to no avail. Hatred simmered in the orc's eyes as he struggled for proper breath, and then his lip abruptly sneered over craggy teeth. Whatever words he spat next came in no tongue Cullen had ever heard, but the very sound assaulted his ears with the promise of things black and perverted and unclean.

The bear-man snarled and swung his orc-laden arm back, clearly intent on launching Odbut on a very short and final flight. But a clear voice rang from the dark.

"Russ, NO! We don't want him dead, yet!"

xxx

TBC ...

Ed. note: My apologies for delays in posting! I got busy this weekend and completely lost track of time! Mea culpa!


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight 

_October 25th Henneth Annûn _

For a brief, fleeting moment, Cullen knew hope, as a tall shape strode from the darkness. However, starlight glinted in cold grey eyes, and a dark cloak swung over an empty left sleeve. The farmer's son let his head drop back to earth, for he knew to expect no charity from Anardil, the former Ranger. His last contact with the man had been a grilling after the discovery of a dead woman in Margul's house, and Cullen now dreaded that this would be no better.

Anardil stopped several feet away to study Odbut's unenviable plight. Then he cocked his head to observe Cullen, still with Russ' great bare foot planted firmly on his chest.

"This is unusual," said Anardil. "Cullen and Odbut, the old fishing partners. But I don't see any fishing poles. What do you propose to do with these, Russ?"

"Get answers," the giant growled. "I'm trying to decide which one to squeeze, first. Maybe this one."

Russ lowered his arm so Odbut's feet touched the ground, but only to jerk the orc in a teeth-clattering shake.

"I see." Anardil paused, frowned, and stroked his chin. "They have a song we want to hear, eh?"

"Oh yes - a song of names. Margul. Khint. Names of the puppeteers." The Beorning peered down at the youth pinioned beneath his foot, and Cullen wheezed as the pressure on his chest increased. "I intend to hear them sing it sweetly."

"You'll get nothin' from me!" snarled Odbut, albeit in a rasping voice crushed by the twisted knot of coarse clothing Russ' grip bunched at his throat. "Stinkin' tarks, there's nothing you can do that I haven't seen a hundred times worse - go ahead and kill me, I don't care!"

"Kill you?" Russ fisted both hands in the creature's shoddy shirtfront, ignoring the clawed fingers that dug into his naked arms. "What makes you think I'd let you off that easy? Whatever it takes, I will know the intent of your master's plots and threats of murder."

Though the dark of a starlit night surrounded them, it seemed as if a great light suddenly illuminated Anardil's thought. Clearly Russ held captive those who most likely knew the truths behind the intrigues. What stroke of fortune brought them to this pass, he could not imagine, but he was not about to waste the moment.

"You know, Russ," mused Anardil, "you may have something, there."

At a glance, he presumed that the farmer's lad, a shivering heap on the ground, might posses a little information. On the other hand, the orc dangling from the Beorning's grasp probably knew a lot, given that he served as messenger to the mysterious Margul. However, judging by the expression curdling the orc's face, he seemed unlikely to be forthcoming with the facts. Anardil decided to concentrate first upon the easy target.

Giving Russ a quick look that he hoped the giant would understand - 'stay mean, I'll be nice' - Anardil crouched by Cullen. Evidently the Beorning decided to play along, for he removed his foot from the youth's sternum and allowed him to sit up. Taking his cue, the former Ranger shook his head and sighed heavily.

"You better explain yourself quickly, lad, before the shape-shifter loses all patience." With a glance at the hairy, hard-knotted calf and thigh muscles at his shoulder, Anardil added, "He's a very angry man and could turn back into a bear at any moment."

Cullen's head wobbled on his neck as if pulled by invisible strings. "I don't know anything." The words came out in a strangled whisper.

"You better know something, Cullen; else you're of no use." Anardil's deceptively soft tone made this a dire threat. "Who's this orc really, and why is he here? That would do for a start."

Odbut hissed a warning through sharp teeth, but a rough shake of Russ' hand turned the hiss into a strangled cough. Still, the youth did not speak.

Grabbing Cullen's shirtfront to focus his attention, Anardil leaned in to spell the situation out. "If the orc and this Margul are threatening you, don't you think it better to have Russ," he nodded up at the Beorning, "and the king's men on your side, rather than making yet more enemies? It's your only chance."

Another whisper issued from the lad. "My family?"

"They're threatened too?" At Cullen's jerky nod, Anardil reassured, "We can set a guard on them, if we know what the danger is. Now tell me about this orc."

Holding the being in question once more at arm's length, Russ bent his inordinately large and inordinately naked frame towards Cullen.

"SPEAK!" he roared, the blast of his voice nearly blowing Cullen's hair back.

A veritable flood of words poured from the youth's mouth. "He's called Odbut. Sira says he's Margul's beast, and a killer. Margul keeps orcs to do his dirty work. I don't know why they wanted me to look for a signal, but Margul used to have me go…"

During the confession, three other figures arrived to stand quietly in the shadows. Russ glanced in grim acknowledgement towards Halbarad, Tarannon and the silver-haired elf, but Anardil kept his attention fixed on the terrified youth. Once, Odbut burst out kicking and flailing, but a swift whack reduced him to a sagging, gurgling lump in Russ' grip, whereupon Cullen babbled even faster.

When at last the torrent of jumbled facts, excuses, conjecture and just plain panic ceased, Anardil patted the boy's shoulder as if he were a well-behaved dog. "Good, Cullen. Now tell me the connection between Margul and the law lord's clerk."

Though he had not thought it possible, Anardil watched the fear intensify.

"I don't know!" Cullen blurted.

"Oh yes you do, lad. I can see it in your face."

"And I can smell it in his sweat," the Beorning rumbled. "Let me have him, I'll wring the truth from his miserable body."

Anardil shook his head. "Time is wasting, Cullen."

"Squeeze the puppet, find the puppet master."

"Cullen, you're not being a smart boy. Say, don't you think Russ looks hairier than a moment ago?"

A single agonised word exploded from Cullen like a cry of desperation. "Valthaur!"

Total silence followed.

"Well," rumbled Russ. "The puppet reveals his master."

"You're dead, boy!" exploded Odbut, thrashing madly in the Beorning's grip. "You're dead!"

A slap to the side of the orc's head returned him to murderous silence.

Anardil drew Cullen's attention back with a stiff finger to the chest. "There is a connection between Margul and Valthaur?"

Now that the name had been spoken, Cullen seemed to find it easier to answer, wilting visibly under the several pairs of watching eyes. "Yes. I took something from Margul to the judge's house in Minas Tirith."

"What was it?"

"I don't know. Something about this size." Trembling hands gestured. "And round. It was wrapped up in a sack - probably just some trinket. Lord Valthaur's house was full of such stuff. He stroked it like a pet cat or something." The youth hunched his shoulders reflexively.

"So, maybe a simple trading relationship?" Anardil glanced at Russ and the newcomers.

Letting out a mirthless laugh, Russbeorn shook the battered orc again, like a goodwife shaking a market hen. "I think this one told us more than the boy ever could. If it were a mere trading relationship, why threaten death for speaking Valthaur's name. Here, Captains, have this baggage. I've got a puppet master to deal with."

Russ thrust the orc at Halbarad and Tarannon, and let go, leaving the startled Rangers to struggle briefly against flailing fingernails and sharp teeth. The Beorning would have stridden off there and then were it not for Celebsul's firm grip on his arm.

"You cannot go single-handed against King's officials, who are protected by Rangers and soldiers, on the basis of a few words that would prove little in a court of law."

Shrugging off the elf's hand, Russ replied. "I have all the proof I need."

"And what will you do, Russbeorn?" Celebsul persisted. "What would you have of Lord Valthaur, on the strength of one frightened boy's word that he delivered a parcel for his master?"

Slow befuddlement shadowed the big man's brow. "I will have justice."

"What justice? What is justice, when servants lie but their lord cannot be proven untrue? Is the master ever guilty of his servants' deeds?"

Struggling once more in the wilderness of words, Russ answered stubbornly, "Lord Valthaur is Khint's master. If his servant lies, then yes, he is to answer."

"And Margul? What proof have we that Margul's contact with Lord Valthaur was anything more than a merchant delivering wares to yet one of many wealthy clients?"

A low grumbling echoed in the man's great chest as he glowered down at the elf's lithe form. "Curse the justice of men," he growled. "For it is twined like brambles and barbed like thorns."

He lifted his dark gaze to rake Halbarad and Tarannon in turn. "Did I not say, before the ruins of that cave, that Darien's jackals, once fed and fat and healed of their hurts, would repent of their promises of truth? You swore that your Steward would be just and fair, but where is he? I do not see him here. Let him come forth to hear Nik's oath, and let him be the voice and ear of true Men."

At Russ' elbow, Halbarad shifted his grip on Odbut, whom he held while Tarannon bound the orc at hands, elbows and knees.

"Lord Valthaur is the representative of Lord Faramir," Halbarad said. "That is how things are done."

"And him I cannot trust, for his servant is a servant of lies." Russ drew himself up to his full, magnificent height, a primordial creature from a time of legends, framed in barren trees and starlight.

"If your steward will not tend to his own justice, then I say I am done with your laws and courts. Nik has fulfilled his oath. He has come to your men of law and spoken the truth. There is no more. At dawn, Nik and I shall return to our wilds and leave you to your world of shams and treachery. "

Tarannon sighed, giving his last knot a hearty yank, while Halbarad groaned and gritted his teeth. Anardil simply hauled wide-eyed Cullen to his feet.

"Before you go anywhere, wilderness or otherwise," Celebsul suggested mildly, "at least put your clothes on." And he pointed to the neat pile of garments he had brought from behind the Cauldron.

His hand clenched firmly on Cullen's collar, Anardil said, "Russ, you must remember, as long as Margul runs free, he is dangerous. If we accuse Lord Valthaur or his clerk, Margul will find out and escape with us none the wiser. We can't be certain of the law lord's involvement, but we do know now that Margul is trying to interfere with the outcome of Nik's hearing. Even if we foil that, the man is still loose out there, and Nik is still in jeopardy."

"Then Nik and I leave tonight," Russ replied. "Margul does not know the ways we travel, and he would be foolish, indeed, to follow."

"But consider this," Anardil persisted. "It is Nik's oath that brought us all here. None of us, not you, not me, have the right to tell him when his oath is forfeit. Is that not his decision to make?"

"We want the truth, too, Russ," Halbarad added. "But we need proof, and proof takes time."

"Then go find your proof," said Russ. "I didn't tie this knot. My only intent is to keep Nik safe."

With that, he turned and began to dress.

"Friends," Halbarad pleaded, "We need to discuss this quietly, plan a way of getting all those who are guilty, and we need to do so in private rather than out here. Let us go back to the stables, quietly, unseen, and consult the people who are at risk, most notably, Nik."

Russ shook his shaggy head, though whether in negation or discontent, none could guess. Doggedly, he repeated, "Let this steward come to sit in his high seat, and let him demonstrate justice, or we shall be gone."

"We all want the same thing that you want, Russbeorn." Celebsul's eyes gleamed gently in the darkness. "Let us do this together."

Russ spoke not a word, but he reached for his boots and pulled them on.

xxx

In Alfgard's lamp-lit kitchen, three men sat around the sturdy table, silently drinking mugs of tea. Of the family, Alfgard alone delayed from his bed. Of the Silverbrook group, only Darien and Horus remained; Neal and Evan having returned to The Whistling Dog with Carrick and Bevin. Erin the hobbit silently pattered about the kitchen, offering quiet encouragement to Sev and ensuring the men folks left no crumbs or dirty cups for Linnet to find in the morning.

Sevilodorf stood, cup in hand, by the window, looking out to where Nik and Gubbitch kept their vigil - Lugbac being safely asleep in his quarters. Every moment that passed since the departure of Anardil in pursuit of Russ, brought deeper anxiety to the Rohirrim woman. She sighed under her breath then took a sip of tea, her gaze fixed on the shadowy orcs who were as concerned as she about their missing friends

Our ancient Gubbitch, Sev decided, must have excellent eyesight. He had nudged Nik and pointed out into the dark. Leaning close to the pane, Sev shaded her eyes and peered in the indicated direction, yet she could discern nothing.

"I think, maybe, someone is coming," she announced, both hopefully and fearfully.

The three men rose to join her at the window, while Erin paused with a dishcloth poised over an already spotless table.

"I can't see anything," Alfgard muttered.

Sev confessed, "Neither can I, but Gubbitch just waved at something…"

"There!" Horus exclaimed when vague silhouettes resolved from the substance of the night. "We better go and see what is happening."

Heart racing, Sev headed to the door, Erin and the men following closely at her heels. Once outside, however, her sprits sank. The arrivals were two of Alfgard's men who had been on guard duty.

"Boss," one of the men hailed the stable-master, but kept his voice low to avoid waking the household. "Captain Tarannon told us to guard the front gate, and we thought we'd better check with you."

Alfgard scratched his head in bafflement then noticed Gubbitch nodding fervently behind the stable-hands' backs. "Well … if Captain Tarannon thinks that is for the best, then maybe you should."

The two men said, "Aye," before walking past the house to disappear into darkness once more.

"What was that about?" Alfgard asked Gubbitch.

"Celebsul and others want to come back un-witnessed," the orc replied mysteriously. "They'll be here any minute … there - there they be."

The soft glow of an elf's spirit cast the faintest of light upon those walking with him. While three men had set out from the stables, five were returning. One of the extras proved to be the town's Ranger Captain - not unexpected given that Halbarad had stated his intentions of alerting Tarannon. The other caused raised eyebrows - Cullen, son of Tiroc, sternly prodded along by Anardil. Bringing up the rear, the towering form of Russ loomed, and something large wriggled and snarled beneath his arm.

"Oh, my," murmured Erin. "I think Russ found something."

xxx

A half-hour later, the group assembled round the kitchen table. By now the time had grown quite late, nearly midnight, and several stifled yawns belied the urgency of their situation.

"That's done," said Halbarad, standing to lean both hands on the back of a chair. "Odbut is locked away in that empty room of Alfgard's icehouse -."

"Waste of good blankets," growled the Rohirrim. The wish for sleep caused even his temper to fray.

"With food and water," Halbarad continued, casting a stern glance. "And Cullen is locked in the smokehouse. I think Anardil's warning for him to keep quiet for his own safety made an impression."

"Not so much that," Anardil observed with a humourless smirk. "I think it was the idea of Margul sneaking around in the dark with a sharp knife, hunting him, that's going to keep his mouth shut."

"Well done," said Captain Tarannon. "And my sealed instructions via my second command will advise good Farmer Tiroc that his son is in protective custody until we deem it safe for him to return."

Erin looked up in quick alarm. "What about Farmer Tiroc and the rest of his family?"

"Two of my Rangers will take lodgings at Tiroc's farmhouse," Tarannon replied. "Ostensibly because their current accommodations are uncomfortable, and they're put out of their own quarters until Lord Valthaur departs. Our sensible farmer should understand the real reason as soon as he hears the name, 'Margul'."

So the immediate loose ends were tied. Now came the time for reckoning. The kitchen seemed crowded as five men, a woman, a hobbit lass, an elf, two orcs and a massive, angry Beorning variously sat at the table or stood propped against walls.

By the window, Russ pulled at the neck of his tunic and rumbled, "Plots and plans - a man could drown in them. It is too crowded in here. Nik, we must go, and leave these people to their clue-solving."

The uruk frowned up at his mentor. "But I haven't heard all the clues."

"They are of no matter to us." The Beorning frowned as he looked at his diminutive friend. "Nik, you came to tell the truth, but those men will hang you with their lies. I cannot allow that. You have kept your oath, so we will go back to the farm."

"But the hearing isn't over," Nik protested.

"It is as far as I'm concerned." Russ stared hungrily out into the spacious night. "Do you not see the web that is being woven? Those men lie because they have no reason to tell the truth and their honour is for sale. A pretty lie is easier swallowed than an unsightly truth - and you are an unsightly truth, in most men's eyes." Again he turned his brooding gaze on Nik. "Do you want to hear more lies - risk losing your freedom, and then your life?"

Unmoved, Nik shrugged. "I'd like to hear more clues so I'll know what I'm risking."

"He has a point." Celebsul spoke from his cross-legged perch atop a kitchen counter. "And there are others here also at threat who need to be informed - Sev being one. Spare Nik a little more time while we assess what we know."

Eyes closing, the Beorning's hands balled into fists and a heavy sigh dragged its way from his chest. Nik and the elf both recognised this as a concession, though its duration might be as short as the man's patience. At Celebsul's nod, Anardil pushed himself upright from the cupboard that he leant against, and began recounting the situation.

"I think we have to accept the truth of Sira's story. All the evidence supports it. Out there is a man called Margul who uses orcs, or at least this Odbut, for all manner of purposes including assassination. Odbut brought a message to Cullen telling him to look for a signal from the law clerk tomorrow, and threatened death to the boy and his family if he failed to carry out the order. Several of us are witness to that." The former Ranger glanced at Russ, whose expression darkened even further.

Continuing, Anardil said, "Someone, and the clues point strongly to the clerk, fed mistruths to Osric and his sidekicks to try to prove Nik guilty. Margul did not want orcs to be given rights, and I conclude he now wishes to ensure that those rights are made to look meaningless. There is a small and possibly innocent connection between Margul and Valthaur, but the one between Margul and Khint seems corrupt in the extreme."

Silence reigned for a moment while people mulled over Anardil's words. Then Erin piped up. "What do you think the signal was for?"

Unexpectedly, Horus answered from his seat at the table. "A back-up plan would be my guess. If the evidence became stacked upon Nik's side, then he would be set free. Margul would want to ensure…"

"What?" The Beorning's stifled exclamation steamed with rage.

Nik nodded understanding. "That I'd not be free for long."

"Then we will go now!" Russ insisted.

Releasing his grip on his chair, Halbarad asked, "Where will you go? The farm is no protection from the likes of Margul."

"Ha, as if I fear his sort. I would know the moment he stepped onto my land, and I would crush him."

"But Teach," Nik tugged his mentor's tunic, "What about the others?"

"What others?"

Casting a look around the room, the uruk seemed to be gathering words. "Sevi for a start." His hand indicated the woman standing stiff-backed by the stove then gestured to the seated men. "And Horus and Darien - anyone who stands by the likes of me. This Margul might be a threat to them all. And the barmaid, and the scared lad out back, and his family. If we go back home now, I'll never be able to ride Warg beyond the bounds of our land. I'll be a prisoner, Teach."

Silence fell again, and Halbarad ran a hand through his hair. There, they had come to the very meat of the matter. Gnarled old Gubbitch nodded slowly, a much-furrowed grimace proof that Nik's reasoning impressed him.

Heavily Alfgard commented, "None are safe while this man walks free."

The Beorning let out another shuddering sigh. "What am I supposed to do? Allow the hearing to go ahead with the certainty of Nik being either sent to trial or released to be murdered?"

"No," Anardil replied firmly. "The hearing must be stopped."

This set Captain Tarannon to tapping on the table and frowning. "How do you propose we do that? Do we approach Lord Valthaur with our knowledge of Khint's involvement with Margul?"

"Definitely not!" Halbarad sat down abruptly. "We have nothing overt to implicate the law lord at all, but the orc's death threat to Cullen still rings in my ears - and it was elicited by Valthaur's name."

"Indeed, the fat man is the puppeteer." Russ' beard wagged his agreement.

"Not necessarily," cautioned Tarannon. "Cullen did say Valthaur frightened him merely by his presence, when he delivered Margul's merchandise last spring. Cullen I'm afraid is something of a dullard, and easily cowed by the appearance of authority."

"Well," Anardil reasoned, "we dare not risk alerting any of them to our suspicions." He looked towards Sevi who had remained silent throughout. On receiving her expression of encouragement, he continued. "Cullen and Odbut must be kept out of sight, and their confinement remain secret. There is not enough evidence for Ranger captains to take action, but there is sufficient for the Steward to want to ask questions. If I leave now and ride swiftly, I can be in Emyn Arnen by tomorrow afternoon."

Sevilodorf had not expected that outcome. "But the hearing continues tomorrow. It will be over long before you can return."

"Unless it is delayed, somehow." Every eye in the room swivelled to the normally prim and correct Tarannon. Heat rose in the man's face, but he elaborated. "It is surely not beyond the wit of the people in this room to find some way to buy more time."

"Burn down barracks," Gubbitch suggested, grinning wryly when Tarannon glared at him.

"We can think of something, I'm sure." The Silverbrook lord pushed his chair back a little to face Anardil. "Go to Emyn Arnen. Leave us to work out the delay."

"There'll be delay enough when Nik and I leave," Russ snarled quietly.

"I can't go now, Teach." Nik looked up at his enormous friend beseechingly. "These are our friends and doing their best to help me. Besides, if some people think my being set free will encourage more orcs to live in peace, then it's worth the risk."

The Beorning stared at his charge, once more struck dumb by the uruk's wisdom and courage.

"Aye," he finally acknowledged, resting a massive hand briefly upon Nik's head. "Of everything that has been said, that I can see the sense of. But if this Steward is to bring Justice as Halbarad promised, then men must move now."

"I will," Anardil stated, stepping quickly alongside Sev.

"And I can show you a way to leave the stables unseen and unheard." Alfgard winked.

Captain Tarannon looked askance at the Rohirrim man, but added, "And Halbarad and I will unearth faulty paperwork, possible new witnesses, rotten floorboards…" Shrugging, he ended lamely, "Whatever it takes to delay the hearing."

Within moments, the room emptied, Anardil vanished to pack for a swift journey, and the wheels of subterfuge were in motion.

xxx

TBC ...


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Anardil strode swiftly towards the men's bunkhouse, with Halbarad at his heels to discuss last minute stratagems, leaving Sev to stand alone at the door of Alfgard's house. Fighting back the urge to hurry after him, she drew in a deep breath then released it slowly. There was no need for her to offer to pack his saddlebag or tag along after him as he did the task himself; however, there were other ways she could speed him on his journey.

Mindful of the hobbit lingering in the dark corridor behind her, she said, "Erin, if you would, scrounge about the kitchen and make up a pack of food. Mind everything fits in a small sack and can be managed without a knife. If I know him, he'll be eating in the saddle."

"Right away, Sevi, don't let him leave without it."

"I'll try," Sev replied. Stepping out the door and closing it, she started toward the barn.

The animals, still restless after the earlier excitement, poked inquisitive heads out of their stalls as Sev slipped inside the wide doors. 'Twas a blessing Alfgard, in his regard for their privacy, had sent most of his hired men to lodgings elsewhere, or even this chore would have been taken from her. And she must do something. Watching Anardil ride off into the darkness was not a task she would manage without something to keep her hands and mind occupied.

She paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the faint moonlight seeping in through the hayloft. Then, with an ease born of lifelong habits, she murmured soothing words and doled out gentle touches as she found her way to the tack area. Counting silently, she located the rack bearing Anardil's saddle. The sleek feel of the leather brought back Raberlon's words, "Found 'em this morning polishing up yer saddle and that of yer man's."

With a sigh, she lifted the saddle and made her way to Gomelfaex's stall. Who would have imagined orcs ever doing such things? Or making up plasters to treat a horse's leg? Sev shook her head then hefted the saddle on one hip and pulled open the stall door. On the other hand, who would ever have imagined a Gondorian Lord of Law calling an uruk to speak before the court? Or one of the Dunedain riding through the night to ensure an orc received justice? Add to that the matter of two ex-orc-hunters begging a room from Alfgard for the night to continue the discussion of how to keep the King's officials from testing an orc's guilt.

Hands occupied with the task of saddling, she allowed her mind to follow that train of thought. There were times that the way the world had been turned upside down became very hard to understand. 'Twas no wonder Anardil despaired of being able to meet the changes. If only there were some way to convince him everyone felt the same, even the orcs. But it was an understanding that, by necessity, grew slowly and could not be rushed.

"He who is convinced against his will, remains of the same opinion still," Sev muttered in Rohirric as she lifted Gomelfaex's bridle from the hook beside the stall.

Long ago, the saying had been a favourite of her father's and now seemed far too applicable to the current situation. But the arts of gentle persuasion and careful coaxing were never ones for which she possessed much talent. Her method was to doggedly repeat the same facts again and again; and if the other person could not be convinced of what was so obviously truth, she would more often than not throw up her hands and retreat entirely.

However, neither of her preferred techniques would benefit them here. Lord Valthaur controlled the courtroom, so speaking the truth would be of little use and retreat was not an option. Thus they set their feet upon the path of delay and worked to appeal to a higher authority.

Sev pulled a lock of hair from beneath the brow-band and leaned her head against the horse's neck to whisper, "Take care of him, Gomel. He'll need you to watch out for him."

"Your reason for gifting him to me now becomes clear."

With a frown because he had managed to startle her, Sev replied brusquely, "You set the guards you wish, Anardil, and I will set those of my choice."

"And grateful I am for your selection, _mel_e_th nín." _Anardil smiled when she all but snatched his saddle packs from his hand and slung them behind his saddle. Slipping the loop of a small sack over the pommel, he added, "For your care of me in all ways. Mistress Erin says this was by your order."

"If I had the ordering of things, events would proceed in a far different manner."

"Peace, Sevi," Anardil said and caught her hand to draw her close. "Hal will need your practicality while I am gone, to keep Russ in hand and think up believable reasons for delays until I return."

"You expect me to come up with something that will pacify Lord Valthaur?" exclaimed Sev. "The man is a master of wordplay, and far beyond my abilities to confound. Misdirection does not come naturally to me; and no matter what excuse we give, it will not work for long."

"You will manage somehow, for you know you must."

Feeling that his trust in her was more burden than compliment, Sev sighed. "There are times I dearly wish I were the type to wring my hands and swoon at the least sign of trouble."

Anardil chuckled and wrapped his arm about her waist. "If you think that will cause Lord Valthaur to call a delay, you are welcome to try, my dear; but he is more likely to believe you wrung someone's neck. Only don't start with that orc. I would like another chance to question him."

Eyes gleaming, Sev asked, "How about Cullen? I'd gladly wring his. The toidi."

Sobering, Anardil said, "There are pieces still yet missing in this puzzle, Sev. Be careful with whatever you devise. Keep it simple, and keep it quiet - the fewer who know what is true and what is false the better. Even amongst those we deem friends."

She leaned back to study his shadowed face. Once again, he wished her to acknowledge the world was filled with people who were neither wholly good nor totally evil, and accept that it was not dishonourable to use artifice to bring the truth to light. Such were the lessons this man of shadow expected her to learn. Under the directness of his gaze, she gave a jerky nod.

"As you say, Anardil. I will do my best."

"As will I. Beginning with making all possible speed."

Though her fingers ached to clutch him to her, she found the strength to murmur, "Wes tu hal, min leof" and lift her face for a swift kiss before he led Gomel from his stall to the far doors of the barn. A last glance and a lift of his hand, then he was gone, vanished in the darkness with the ghost-grey horse following quietly at his heels.

For a moment, she simply stood drawing the familiarity of the barn about her like a warm cloak. Then she clasped her hands together tightly and bowed her head in thought. Simple, yet believable. What possible excuse could be contrived that would create a delay of several days?

Without conscious thought, she began to pace the wide aisle of the barn: back and forth, over and over. It was indeed too bad her hangover remedy had not poisoned Osric; then he would have been too sick to testify. Now, of course, it was too late. He had already spoken. The delay must come from someone who had not yet been called to speak. She, Horus, Bevin and Evan were the only candidates, and Anardil had warned to be cautious in her choice of conspirators.

Thinking over the evening's events, Sev re-examined all of the suggestions made so far for delay. Slowly, she began to see a possibility that could last as long as they might need, and be of such a nature that few would wish to question the situation. Men especially would feel uncomfortable speaking of the topic, though she suddenly realised she did know one man who could recite volumes upon the subject if requested.

A few more trips across the barn and she had outlined a plan, narrowed it to the two who would need to know all, and conjured an excuse to separate those two from the others. Again blessing the courtesy, which had removed so many of the stable's men from the household, she left the barn.

xxx

_October 26- On the Road to Emyn Arnen  
__Pre-Dawn_

A man riding long distances on horseback found himself with time to think, and a man alone in the dark had even more time than usual. Not that the dark itself disturbed this rider, though a prudent man kept his senses alert, since the wilds of Ithilien still held perils for the unwary. However, even whilst Anardil's senses read the nuances of the night above the steady drumming of his horse's hooves, his mind gnawed restlessly at his concerns.

Foremost among these was the object of his night-time ride, a shadowy stranger named Margul. The man comprised a puzzle whose pieces scattered like shattered glass, but puzzles were Anardil's stock in trade.

Who was Margul? A wealthy merchant of Minas Tirith, whose gentlemanly elegance and impeccable tastes made him welcome in any noble house of Gondor. What is more, his acumen in business was such that he could procure rare and valued goods that no one else could, and his clientele included the noblest families in the city.

"And now he's a fugitive," muttered Anardil. "Bearded and disguised, by Sira's account, and living … where is he living?"

Margul clearly did not reside in the village, for strangers could not long escape notice in the close-knit community of Henneth Annûn. Thus, he must be in hiding. But if so, where did he shelter? How did he eat? Who were his friends?

"Khint," Anardil murmured. "But how? Gomel, we need to look at what we've got."

His horse twitched one grey ear, but never slackened the steady drumming of his pace. Body moving of habit in time with the horse's long stride, Anardil spoke softly again.

"Margul certainly could have done business with Lord Valthaur … but he would have no traffic with an underpaid clerk. In fact, Khint does not even appear on the stage until now. Margul's link to Valthaur before … was Cullen. Cullen delivered a parcel for him last spring."

Anardil frowned, watching the grey ribbon of road un-spool before him, feeling the ceaseless beat of Gomelfaex's hooves echo in his bones. "But why would a purveyor in exotic goods entrust anything of value to a dull-witted farm boy? And what could Margul find in Henneth Annûn that Valthaur would want that couldn't be found in Minas Tirith? Unless he was just testing the loyalty of his little spy."

The rhythmic pressure of the horse's ribs against his legs spoke of Gomel's exertions, so Anardil slowed him to a fast walk and settled in his seat. "Ah, Gomel, I'm missing something. Where does Khint fit, in the path between Margul and Lord Valthaur? Or is the path only between Khint and Margul?"

The slower clop of hooves was swallowed in the dark shadows of leaning trees, and a chill breeze rattled dry leaves. Nonetheless, a corner of Anardil's mind simply noted and catalogued each sound as simply the whispering of an autumn wood, the voices of the wild that he knew intimately as his own heartbeat. He and Gomel both cocked an ear to the sharp clatter of a falling branch, but then the patter of tiny hooves marked the flight of a solitary doe.

Anardil's voice barely rose above the rustling of the trees when he spoke again. "Cullen is just a tool ready to the first hand that picks him up. Khint is the real link in the chain. Cullen was to watch for a signal from him, but he never got to hear why. Khint communicates with Margul, he speaks to Lord Valthaur, he speaks … he surely must speak to Ham and Tom and Osric. By Isildur's beard!"

He thumped the heel of his fist to his saddle pommel. "Who, then, is Khint's true master? Russ has a point, there. I've no doubt that Margul could buy Khint's loyalty. A clerk does not make the best wage, and after all, the potential victim, Nik, is only an orc. I'm certain Margul has small fortunes hidden in a hundred rabbit holes all across Gondor. But where is Lord Valthaur in all this? Could he be so complacent, or else so trusting, that Khint could be in league with Margul, and Valthaur none the wiser?"

Again the former Ranger scowled, for however corpulent the law lord's body, the mind it housed was sharp as any blade. Nonetheless, he knew that long trust could sometimes breed negligence.

"Is Khint that clever? Although you know, Gomel, sometimes the powerful don't really see the little people under them. For that matter, we didn't even see Khint influencing Osric and his mates, and that was right under our noses."

After a time, Anardil mused aloud once more. "Questions, Gomel, too many questions that beg answer. Khint is clearly in league with Margul, but I simply can't draw the connection to include Valthaur. He almost sank the entire case for orc-rights, when he spoke for the opposition last spring. But that is his reputation - a powerful advocate and a formidable opponent - and he has been entirely even-handed with Nik. Either he is blind to Khint's behaviour, or he is willing to risk his position, his good name and thirty years of service, while he pretends to hear a case that his own clerk is undermining. Ah, Gomel, lad, there are just too many pieces missing. Let us hope Lord Faramir can grant us time to find them."

He shifted his seat and nudged the big grey once more into that long, reaching trot. The dark ranks of trees swept swiftly to either side, and ever and anon iron horse shoes struck sparks on the stony road to Emyn Arnen.

_xxx_

_26th October_

Dawn sifted coldly from the crags of the Ephel Dúath. Somewhere in the house, a child cried and was answered by a woman's soft tones; platters rang, crockery rattled and the smell of baking bread wafted along the corridors. But these signals of a new day remained unnoticed by the tall, dark-haired man standing head bowed before one closed door. Even the bright rays of the rising sun failed to penetrate his cocoon of concentration.

Only the opening of the door and the emergence of Sevilodorf pierced his trance, and he lifted his as-yet-unshaven chin in hopes of seeing some relief for his worry. But shoulders sagging with weariness, Sev pulled the door closed and met Darien's anxiety with a shake of her head.

"He is no better, but no worse either. The fever continues. Nothing Linnet has on hand eases it for long. Evan and his brother arrived early, wondering why you did not return last night. I sent Evan to Master Banazîr for additional herbs."

Darien felt the small fragment of hope he had clung to drift beyond his reach. "What could bring such a condition on so suddenly? Horus was well enough upon retiring."

"Aye, and for all we know, he might be right as rain on the morrow. Fevers are strange things, though this one…" Her voice slowed and she chewed upon her lip, only to shake her head again. "If I did not know better, I would almost say it was… but it couldn't be."

Exercising immense control, the Silverbrook lord persisted, "Any suggestion is worth considering, lady. What do you suspect?"

"'Tis but a children's ailment, and not so virulent as this fever."

His patience beginning to fracture, Darien rubbed the greying hair at his temple where a vein visibly pulsed. "Forgive me, Mistress Sevilodorf, but you are not normally so reticent with your opinions - would you please speak your mind."

Patting his arm as if soothing a child, Sev answered, "Mumps, my lord. Though I must consult with Linnet and possibly Master Banazîr, there is the chance it might be the mumps. Evan mentioned you had experienced a recent outbreak at Silverbrook. You left home nearly three weeks ago?"

"Yes," responded Darien, frowning in confusion.

"That's the proper span of time. You have had them yourself? You will need to check whether your other men are immune or Horus will have company in his misery." Sev waited long enough for Darien to nod, and then turned to walk away. "I must go and give the cook instructions for a soothing draught. When Evan comes, send him to the door with the remedies he's brought. Make certain he knows not to come inside. The fewer people exposed to this the better, for it might not be mumps."

"Wait, please." Darien's hand halted just short of touching Sev's sleeve. "I can scarcely recall having them as a child, but Mistress Linnet was not overly concerned about the young child. Nor do I remember the goodwives of the Silverbrook treating mumps as other than a simple ailment."

"For a young child, 'tis a simple thing. Even in a youth of Evan's age the disease runs its course within a day or two and is rarely more than a nuisance." Sev's mouth contorted into a sympathetic expression. "But - recall the discussion at supper - for a man of Horus' years, the effects are often … strengthened."

"What effects?" began Darien, trying to remember what was said earlier. His thoughts were interrupted by Sev's groan.

"Blast it all, it never rains but it pours. The hearing." She touched quick fingers to her brow. "It was driven from my mind by the necessities of tending Horus. I suppose I'll have to get all togged out in that nmad velvet tunic and go explain to Valthaur why Horus will not make an appearance today. Consider this, Lord Darien, the gods have provided us that which we sought. In this much, we may look upon this event as fortuitous."

Darien stared at the back of the departing woman then fixed his eyes on the closed door. _Withered_ - the word returned to him, and a brief shudder ran down his spine. If he had been worried when Horus' fevered thrashing woke him before dawn, he now felt intense fear for his friend. At best, Horus suffered a disfiguring disease; at worst, he might be in the throes of a fatal illness.

The niggling suspicion during his exchange with Sevilodorf, that the woman seemed to be almost enjoying herself, evaporated completely as his concerns drove him to wondering which of his other men might be at risk.

xxx

Eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and feeling that the small amount of patience she possessed was best reserved for her forthcoming meeting with Lord Valthaur, Sev released the reins upon her temper.

"Why think you that he will believe either of you over me?" she declared to the duo confronting her. "No matter who takes the news to him, he will seek verification of Horus' illness, and I am the one most capable of satisfying his questions."

Throwing up her hands, she let loose a stream of Rohirric, which caused Captain Halbarad to wince and the stoic Alfgard to regard her with disapproval.

"Those are not the words of a lady," her fellow countryman admonished.

"I am no lady. I am a healer who is being kept from my patient by the stupidity of protocol and the blathering of toidis who should know better." Stabbing a finger toward the window of Alfgard's private office, she exclaimed, "The morning is passing. To my mind it is better to seek an audience with the man and make our excuses before the time appointed to appear. The sooner, Lord Valthaur sees the truth of the situation, the sooner I can get back to what I should be doing."

"Will he not be suspicious of this convenient illness?" Alfgard asked, when Halbarad seemed disinclined to intervene.

From a shadowed corner of the room, Celebsul's soft voice joined the discussion. "For whom is it convenient? Judging by the anxiety of Horus' friends, it is anything but. As for Lord Valthaur, most likely he will view it as inconvenient also. Yet, we will not request a delay."

Sev stared open-mouthed at the elf, then folded her arms and glared. "I will not sit all day in that stuffy little room listening to the same story told over and over while Horus lies ill."

"Nor will you be required to do so. Up to this point, Lord Valthaur has taken pains to demonstrate the even-handedness of the hearing, thus he will offer the delay himself. Once he has verified the truth of the illness."

Sev tapped her fingers upon the embroidered sleeves of her tunic. "I am not to ask for a delay, merely inform the court of Horus' illness."

"Yes. If you manage to request his opinion upon the situation, it might make an even better impression."

Accepting this subtle rebuke for her behaviour, Sev clenched her fists but moderated her tone. "While I am humbling myself before the mighty oliphaunt, what will you be doing, Master Celebsul?"

"Tending your patient, of course, given that I have no fear of contagion." The elf offered a small smile of encouragement. "Also tending, with the aid of Captain Halbarad, to those whom the delay most strongly affects, Nik and Russ."

"Bear-minding." To her own surprise, Sev mustered a wry smile in return. "Between the two of us, I think you may need the most luck."

xxx

Leaving her chief witness, the old healer, Master Banazîr, comfortably seated in the hall, Sev allowed Captain Tarannon to escort her as far as the door to the barrack's mess hall.

No sooner had Tarannon opened the door, than a strident voice exclaimed, "Captain Tarannon! Mistress Sevilodorf! This is highly irregular! Court does not convene for another hour! I must insist that -."

However, Willelmus' protests at this interruption to Lord Valthaur's breakfast sailed over Sev's head, her attention gripped by the opulent contents of the table.

It seemed strange how a hobbit and a High Lord of Gondor could be so similar; both having apparently brought comforting mementos of home with them on their journey. The silver saltcellars, polished tureen, and embroidered napkins were not standard equipment for Rangers' quarters. Certainly none had been evident yesterday when the petitioners and witnesses enjoyed the hospitality of Tarannon and his staff.

Dragging her thoughts away from wondering why a man needed six different jars of relish, Sev ignored the flappings of Willelmus and directly addressed Valthaur. "My lord, believe me, I would not come before you on a frivolous errand."

When Valthaur's opaque gaze settled on her, she resisted the urge to tug at the hem of her formal attire like an errant child. However, it was Khint's presence at table that most set her nerves a-jangle, and she kept her eyes carefully fixed on the face of the law lord. Too much attention to the culpable clerk with the bristling eyebrows would surely be noted.

"Nay, Mistress Sevilodorf, you are not a frivolous woman." Valthaur motioned her forward. "Have you broken your fast this morning? Willelmus, another setting."

The chamberlain bustled to a large basket and drew out a place setting. The highly decorated plate, napkin and polished silver utensils all matched those already on the table.

When Sev took only the smallest of steps forward and halted, the Gondorian lord smiled and patted the chair Willelmus drew to the table. "Come, I insist you join me."

"Pray forgive me; my hesitation is out of concern for you and your associates. I have no desire to pass Master Horus' illness to any of you."

Immediately Willelmus' prim nose wrinkled in distaste and Sev felt certain that protocol alone kept the man from drawing an elaborate handkerchief from his sleeve and holding it before his face.

Meanwhile, Khint the law clerk leaned back and looked down his stubby nose at her. "How is it, madam, that a healer of your consequence is unable to put a name to this illness?"

Forced, now, to meet the clerk's sharp eyes set beneath those extraordinary brows, Sev attempted to banish any sign of indecision from her response. "Sir, my experience has been restricted to those ailments and injuries common to a holding of the Mark; while I have heard of virulent southern fevers, I have never seen them myself."

"Might this _condition_ -." The clerk's emphasis on the word caused Willelmus to purse his lips, though Sev noted that Valthaur maintained a bland expression. "- Be common amongst the Haradrim and of a swiftly passing nature?"

"I pray that is the truth, sir." Sev clasped her hands before her, more to keep from plucking at her hems beneath this battery of stares. "But when faced with an unknown fever of such extreme consequence, I find myself wishing to err on the side of caution."

"And what in your opinion would be the course to take?" Valthaur stretched out a plump hand and selected a sticky bun from the small tower beside his plate.

Turning thankfully away from the piercing eyes of the clerk, Sev responded, "That, my lord, is far beyond my power to judge. I know nothing of the proper protocols or requirements. Only that you seek to discover the truth. Master Horus has essential information and is in no condition to appear."

"And you are unable to estimate a time until the Haradrim recovers?" Khint's tone twisted the words into subtle mockery.

Forcing herself to ignore the man and speak only to Lord Valthaur, Sev said, "Forgive me, I am only a simple trader of herbals. However, knowing my limitations, I took the opportunity to consult with a man of far greater knowledge and training. Master Banazîr served many years in the Houses of Healing in the Sixth Circle of Minas Tirith, and is well versed in the diagnosis of southern fevers and their possible complications. He has graciously agreed to give you the benefit of his knowledge."

Sev turned and motioned to Tarannon who yet stood at the door. With a nod, the Ranger Captain stepped out, to return a moment later with the plump, white haired apothecary. Leaning heavily on his cane, the elderly man refused the Ranger's offers of assistance and made his way forward at his own slow pace.

When he finally reached the floor before the table, Banazîr said pleasantly, "'My lord, if Mistress Sevilodorf says that a man may not rise from his bed to perform a duty, then that is the case. Her intolerance for malingerers of any kind is well known."

"Be that as it may, sir," once again Khint spoke for his master, "what can you tell us that would aid this court?"

Unperturbed, the aged healer thoughtfully tapped a crooked finger to his lips. "First, from the symptoms the unfortunate man may be suffering from a combination of ailments."

"Pardon me, Master…" Khint paused and appeared confused until Willelmus whispered the apothecary's name. "Ah yes, Master Banazîr, but is your knowledge of these symptoms based upon hearsay?"

The apothecary leaned heavily on his cane and repeated, "Hearsay?"

"Have you examined the man yourself?"

Drawing himself up as straight as his arthritic limbs would allow, Banazîr fixed the law clerk with fatherly disapproval. "Lord Valthaur, you would do well to teach your underlings finer manners."

Valthaur waved one podgy hand between wipes on a linen napkin. "Excuse him, Master Banazîr; it is Khint's good fortune to be of a healthy constitution. He has no acquaintance with your reputation within the Healer's Halls. Pray forgive any slur upon your reputation and indulge us with the full details of your examination."

"Indeed, I will, sir."

With a dark look at the impudent law clerk, the elderly apothecary proceeded to give a detailed recounting of how he had been called out not long after sunrise to the establishment of Alfgard of Rohan. There he found the Haradrim in the throes of a powerful fever. Further examination revealed the presence of swollen glands. Upon questioning, the man's exposure to bolgur, also known as mumps, had been revealed.

Lord Valthaur spread a layer of butter upon a thin slice of dark bread, and added a dollop of honey precisely in the center. "Then your diagnosis is a case of bolgur - a relatively mild ailment. Master Horus should be well enough to speak tomorrow or the day after, so long as proper precautions are taken to reduce the spread of the disease."

"Oh no, my lord," the apothecary cried. "There is also evidence of secondary ailments. And, while a trifling complaint in the young, bolgur poses extreme danger for a mature man."

"How so?"

Sev kept her eyes demurely downcast until Banazîr completed a graphic description of the unfortunate affects bolgur often had on the adult masculine anatomy. Then, unable to resist, she glanced from beneath her lashes and was forced to bite her inner cheek to keep from grinning at the sight of the impeccable Willelmus standing pale faced and hunched forward in a protective posture and Khint tight lipped with a faint look of pain. Valthaur alone appeared unmoved.

"It is to be hoped that Master Horus experiences a complete and speedy recovery," the Law Lord proclaimed upon the apothecary's cessation. "Will you be seeing to his treatment yourself?"

"Mistress Sevilodorf and Master Alfgard's wife are quite capable of dealing with the situation, though I will be available if matters worsen." Banazîr's weathered face smoothed into the contentment of a man in his element. "A fomentation of muellin leaves and lobelia applied about the neck will reduce the swelling of the glands, while bitters of bayberry bark will aide in cleansing the stomach. That is the best course, but if he experiences discomfort, one could also try a tincture of -."

When the aged apothecary appeared ready to launch a recitation of treatment alternatives, Lord Valthaur interrupted, "I am certain Mistress Sevilodorf wishes to return to her patient." Then directing an avuncular smile toward the Rohirrim woman, he added, "If there is anything I can do to assist you, madam, do not hesitate to call upon me. Pray keep me informed of Master Horus' condition on a daily basis."

Dipping a curtsy, Sev murmured, "You are kind to offer, my lord."

"Do not paint me too kind, lady; my interest is in the procuring of the truth in this tangled tale." Valthaur's several chins arranged themselves into an expression of prim severity. "But not at the risk of a man's life. Khint will post the notice of postponement within the hour. I trust you will inform Lord Darien."

"Yes, sir."

Sev suppressed a sigh of relief as Tarannon stepped forward to lead her and Banazîr from the room. She had long known Willelmus to be an insufferable prig. Now having witnessed Khint's behavior, she felt convinced the clerk could well conduct devious plots without any reliance on his master. Of the three, Valthaur alone displayed courtesy and fair-mindedness. In fact, in contrast with his officials, the law lord …

A voice stopped and turned Sev and her companions as they reached the door.

"Ah, one final question." In his cultured and reasonable manner, Valthaur asked, "Mistress Sevilodorf, where is your partner in trade? He did not accompany you here this morning?"

Sev regarded the man blank-faced and replied in what she hoped were even tones, "He was called away, my lord."

Why did he ask this of her? Being privy to the Grand Council of Gondor, Lord Valthaur was well aware of Anardil's true business as a King's Man. Being chamberlain to Lord Faramir, Willelmus, too, knew the truth. But Khint should not have been advised of such information.

"A dangerous business riding the roads at night," the law lord observed. "It must have been a matter of much importance."

Backed into a corner, Sev uttered what was the first complete falsehood she had spoken to the man, "I would not know, sir."

"Very well, my dear, give him my regards upon his return."

"Yes, my lord."

Then, seeing the man return his attention to the bowl of fruit at his side, Sev hurried from the room.

Emerging onto the covered porch of the Rangers' Headquarters, she strove to keep her thoughts from showing and waited while the ever-silent Eberle all but hoisted his master into a pony cart.

"Come, Mistress Sevilodorf," Banazîr said, removing the lap rug his apprentice had tucked about his legs and motioning her closer. "Let me return you to Master Alfgard's. I assure you I have no fear of contagion."

Though certain, that the rapid beat of her heart was visible for all to see, Sev managed to meet the apothecary's gaze directly and reply, "Sir, as with all true healers you place your patient ahead of yourself. You have done much already to set my mind at ease. I have never seen a case quite like Master Horus'."

"Nor have I. He has contracted a most interesting form of bolgur. All the classic symptoms along with several that are rather unusual."

The intelligence shining from the man's dark eyes made Sev itch to glance around and be certain that no one paid him close attention, but she swallowed and nodded.

"Aye, that is what confused me at first. But I will heed your recommendations as to treatment and pray that Horus makes a swift recovery."

"The muellin and lobelia will work nicely. Now the morning is wearing away, will you accept my offer of transport?"

Pointing across the road to where Lugbac and Neal waited beneath a large oak. "I fear my escorts would object."

Banazîr squinted, then nodded in recognition. "I quite understand. I am certain they are only following their orders."

Sev sighed, relieved to have the conversation shift to a safer topic. "Aye, so I've been told."

"A man will always seek to guard that which is most precious to him." Banazîr smiled as Sev's cheeks flushed pink. "Do not deny him that, my dear."

"I will try, sir. Thank you for your assistance this morning."

"You are quite welcome, do not hesitate to call on me again." With a nod toward Tarannon standing in the shadows of the porch, the apothecary signalled Eberle to move on.

Wondering how she could possibly maintain this masquerade for the entire time Anardil was gone, Sev motioned the orc and the young smith to join her. Then she turned to Tarannon.

"I take my leave of you, Captain. Word will be sent this evening of Horus' condition."

Tarannon swept her a shallow bow. By no word or sign had he given any indication of disbelief at her tale. A circumstance that provided her with a modicum of hope that what had been established thus far was believable. Keep it simple, Anardil had said. He just hadn't explained how to do that when so many people were involved. Ah, well, having started down this path of misdirection, she was fated to continue it. If only she could set aside the fear caused by Valthaur's final enquiry. An enquiry that let her know their movements were being watched. Had that been the only purpose, to see her response? Had Valthaur thought to trick her into an emotional outburst? To discredit her by making it seem she was overly emotional? Whatever his reason, she would need to report his question to Halbarad. Let the Ranger Captains exchange information, she had more than enough to do at the moment.

Awakening to the fact that her escort was standing before her with puzzled looks, she said briskly, "Let's go. Master Banazîr has given me directions for a decoction he believes will aid Horus."

Flanked by her escorts, Sev strode quickly along the main road toward the turn off to the stables. So entrenched was she in her thoughts and so busy were the orc and the man in keeping up with her that none noticed the bearded man trailing them.

xxx

TBC …


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_October 26th - Emyn Arnen_

The morning sun blazed almost painfully bright, by the time Anardil urged his horse clattering up the last lane into Emyn Arnen. Although the trees shivered brightly in cloaks of autumn colour, the lawns beneath lay verdant in dappled sunshine, Ithilien finding its mirror in the gardens of the Steward's estate. However, the one-armed man had only fleeting appreciation, his attention instead directed towards the cobblestone way that led to the stables of the White Company. Almost sixty miles had passed beneath Gomelfaex's hooves since just past midnight, and now Anardil felt certain one more jolt would unhinge every bone in his body. At the sound of his approach, a stable boy came bounding out to meet him with a gap-toothed grin.

"Good morning to you, sir!"

"Hello, lad." As he halted, Anardil smiled down at the boy, grey-eyed, tall and gawky, clearly the son of a Ranger and likely to be a Ranger himself, one day. "Would you lend a bit of kindness to a tired horse?"

The boy's expression turned pitying when he cast his glance over the big grey, for Gomel stood gaunt with weariness and dirty streaks of half-dried sweat marred his grey coat. "Oh, aye. I'll walk him cool and rub him down until you won't see a spot of sweat on him."

Chuckling, Anardil swung heavily from his saddle, off the wrong side, as was his one-armed way. "Bless you, and Gomel blesses you. Tell me, lad, is our Lord Faramir about?"

Already absorbed in stroking Gomel's sleek neck, the lad shook his head. "No, sir. He's gone out on a scout. Been three days gone."

Anardil's stomach plummeted to his boots. Something of it must have showed on his face, for the boy spoke hastily.

"But he's due back today. We're supposed to watch for them home this afternoon. My father is with them, you see."

Absently smiling at the boy's visible pride, Anardil replied, "Thank you, lad. I suppose I'll just find a comfortable place to swing my heels until then."

"Don't worry about Gomel - is that his name? I'll take the best care of him."

Anardil smiled half-heartedly and drew his hand along Gomel's rump when the big horse clip-clopped past, docile as a dog at the boy's heels. Where, then, should he park himself to do said heel swinging? His smile warmed as the answer came to him.

Moments later, he made his way to a small, cosy house set beneath shading trees, but he did not go to the door. Instead, he made his way around back, for he heard familiar voices. Behind the house, open lawn and scattered trees offered haven, while in their midst stood a straw archery butt, marked with a cloth target. From it already jutted several arrows in a commendably tight group. Facing the target stood two of his dearest friends on earth, comrades of his ranging days and all the long road to war's end, and until recently part of the family of The Burping Troll.

The archer took her stance - for woman she was, tall and well made, with short-cropped black hair ornamented only by a single long, thin braid. Another detail startled Anardil - a cleverly contrived knapsack on the woman's back, which held a dark-haired infant child. Abruptly she flowed into the smooth movement of draw, aim, and release. Another shaft fled truly to impale the target's centre.

"Beeeeeee!" squealed the infant.

"Anoriath, I'd say that bow suits you well," said the tall man who stood watching.

"Yes," she replied, lowering her arms to offer her companion an arch smile. "I am quite pleased with it. For once, Elros, you chose the right gift."

From his place amongst the trees, Anardil grinned and stepped forward.

"Indeed, Elros," he said. "You've finally found the way to your lady's heart - more weaponry."

"Dil!" Ani cried with a laugh, while the babe burbled, "Deedeedee!" Elros gave a great whoop and bounded towards their guest.

In the next instant Anardil found himself crushed in a bear hug. As he returned it, he let himself sag briefly into his friend's embrace.

"Ah, Elros, Ani, you both look wonderful. I've missed you."

A white smile brightened Elros' handsome face, while he held Anardil off by both shoulders. "Yes, we still owe a visit back to The Burping Troll. What brings you here unexpected? Is everyone well?" Concern furrowed Elros' brow as he stepped back for a better look. "Why, you are dust and horse sweat all over."

"No one is wounded or in need of rescue, if that's what you mean." With a wry grin, Anardil reached over Anoriath's shoulder to caress the baby's cheek, deciding that safer than attempting to hug an armed mother. "You look wonderful, Ani. And if you'll feed me, I'll tell you all the news."

Anoriath snorted and pointed sternly towards the house. "Elros, your turn to cook."

At that, Anardil laughed aloud. "Motherhood has not gentled her, my friend."

"No," said Elros, although he cast Anoriath a fond smile. "But I don't mind serving lunch. I can slice bread and peel apples with the best of them. Come, rest, and we'll hear your tale."

xxx

_Henneth Annûn - Early afternoon_

Wait, they had begged him, and so he did. Waiting in itself did not trouble Russ, for a Beorning seldom had much to be hasty about. But this, dilly-dallying whilst others did deeds that he could not, well, it began to rankle on a man.

Nonetheless, Russ schooled himself to patience. While he broodingly watched, the wiry form of Nik sprang cheerfully about the paddock with a lanky six-month old colt at his heels. Alfgard had introduced the little uruk to a late-born foal who resided at the stables, and the placid mare in fact seemed relieved to let her little one find another playmate. Carrots and sweetmeats proved all the bait needed, and now Nik gambolled about like a youngster, himself, for all the world as if the colt were an oversized dog.

Russ snorted softly in amusement as the colt abruptly kicked its heels high and bucked off across the pen. Nik's unhandsome grin beamed whilst the little horse bounded and kicked, then spun and raced back to slide to a halt at Nik's side. The uruk's sharp laughter rang while the colt nudged him trustingly for more treats. A confounded shame that men could not use the common sense most animals possessed.

"Good reason I prefer four-legged company," Russ mumbled to himself, and leaned one massive hand on a fence post.

A soft padding of feet caught his attention, and he looked to see the rounded, diminutive form of the hobbit lass, Erin, approaching. In both hands, she held up a covered basket and smiled winningly.

"Good afternoon, Russ," she said. "Although you don't take tea, do you, I thought you still might want a little tea-time snack."

Bemused, the big man reached down to lift the cloth, and blinked to see several plump, sugar-frosted cinnamon buns. Moreover, he could smell their fresh-from-the-oven fragrance, which immediately set his mouth to watering.

"Thank you, don't mind if I do."

The buns were small as teacakes in his big fingers, but he took care to savour each succulent bite.

"You know," said Erin, "I've heard farmers say that dogs are an excellent judge of character. I wonder if horses can be, too?"

Gazing out where Nik sprang about like an overgrown frog and the colt frolicked around him, Russ' expression softened.

"Yes," he said. "Horses don't speak much, but they see many things. They are wiser than most people think." He paused, considered, and then added, "Though of course sometimes they can be terribly flighty and frivolous."

He looked down to see the hobbit lass' eyes were wide with amazement. "What?" he asked.

"Do they really talk?" she asked.

"Yes. To those who have ears to listen. Which most do not."

"Oh." Erin frowned at the cinnamon bun she pulled apart with her fingers. "Goodness, I should hope my chubby Caranroch doesn't tell any dreadful tales on me. I do try to be kind to him."

An unexpected chuckle rumbled from Russ' broad chest. "I think he does not have any complaints."

"That's good." Erin dimpled and then licked her fingers before taking another bite of sweet cake.

Russ looked up to see Nik walking back towards him, grinning widely and out of breath.

"What a friendly little fellow," Nik said. "I think he will be very easy to train. All he wants is to be friends. Oh, is this second lunch?"

"No, silly," said Erin with a laugh. "Hobbits only have second breakfast. This is actually the time for tea, only we don't exactly have tea at the moment, only some sticky buns. They're still warm."

Eagerly Nik dove into the basket, and mumbled his thanks around a gooey mouthful. "Say, Teach." He swallowed quickly at Russ' warning look. "Should Anardil be at Em - Emin - the place where the Steward lives, by now?"

"Emyn Arnen," Russ replied, trying to decide whether to indulge his sweet tooth and have a second treat. His sweet tooth won out. "And yes, he should be there."

"Good. Then I suppose he'll be back tomorrow. Do you think he'll really stop the hearing? I mean, it's stopped now, with poor Horus sick, but I suppose it will start again as soon as he's better."

A mouthful of half-chewed sweet bread abruptly turned to glue in Russ' mouth. He swallowed heavily.

"I do not know, Nik. We are trusting a great deal to a man of whom we have had no more than a brief glance."

Nik munched some more of his cinnamon bun, unaware of butter frosting on his nose. "Well, Captain Halbarad said Lord Faramir is a very noble man. That he is a brave warrior and descended from one of the noblest bloodlines in all of Gondor."

Russ grunted and debated wiping his sticky fingers on his trousers. "Neither nobility nor bravery make a man wise."

Shrugging, Nik agreed. "True. But he also said Faramir is a man of honour. That means being fair and telling the truth, doesn't it?"

As he looked down at his diminutive friend, Russ nodded slowly. "Yes, honour includes that. But it is rarely so simple a thing."

Frowning, Nik chewed a moment then swallowed again. "Lord Valthaur is very honourable; anybody can just look at him and see that. But Captain Halbarad is honourable, too, and he doesn't have servants or eat off fourteen plates at once."

Erin giggled while Russ squinted. "Fourteen plates?"

"Not actually, but that's what Mistress Sevi said it looked like, when she saw him at breakfast." Nik concentrated briefly on licking frosting off his fingers, then asked, "Do you think honour is something people are born with? Or can it be something they go and learn?"

"Nik…" Russ sighed and dusted his hands free of crumbs.

However, before he could think of a suitable response, Erin frowned prettily and replied, "Now, Nik, you should know that honour is not how one looks, or who their grandfather was, or how many plates they use for luncheon. It is trueness of spirit, and honesty even in the face of things that make a person uncomfortable."

The little uruk wrinkled his brow in thought, and popped the last bite of cinnamon bun in his mouth. "Then what about people like that Cullen? I heard Anardil say that Cullen only tells the truth if it's to his own benefit, and the rest of the time he says what he thinks people want to hear. Does that make him dishonourable?"

Now there was a kettle of fish Russ had no desire to get into. What he thought of that squirming whelp would not help Nik's frame of mind in the least. He slanted a glance at the hobbit lass, and saw Erin purse her mouth in a little moue. Her reply proved to be a good deal more charitable than anything he might have said.

"It's a sad thing to say," Erin replied, "but yes, I believe Cullen is dishonourable - or maybe he's just behaving that way. I suspect most good people are born with it, like a seed put in their heart, but sometimes it needs help to grow. Poor Cullen is not a bad boy, but he is not very clever, and he doesn't respect his father. I think he might learn honour as he gets older, when he realises that trying anything else just gets him in trouble."

"So people can learn it?"

Looking at Nik's hopeful expression, Erin laughed and glanced up at Russ. "Nik, you are already honourable. I don't think you need to worry about a thing."

Russ' heart sank as he watched Nik sigh and turn his attention back towards the colt and its mother across the pen. "I think I know what you mean, though, about telling the truth even if it's uncomfortable. I told the truth about the cave, and about how that man, Grady, died, but those other men told other things. They were dishonourable … and nobody said anything to them."

With effort, Russ bit back the caustic retort that formed, for his small friend did not need to hear his bitterness. Instead, he said, "That is the difficult side of honour, Nik. Not all men have it, simply because it can be such a treacherous thing to hold onto. Sometimes it leaves a person standing alone, while others choose an easier road."

Face troubled, Nik looked up at the Beorning. "But that's why it's important, isn't it? Because sometimes the right thing isn't the easy way."

"Yes, Nik." Russ lifted his heavy head and stared across the rooftops, feeling dully chagrined. The shape and movement of things that happened here turned almost within his grasp, so near the frustration grated at his insides, but he found himself powerless to turn away from the uneasy truth. "Because the right thing isn't always easy."

The hobbit's round face softened as she added, "That is why we have friends, Nik. Sometimes people have to work hard to make the right things happen. Anardil will talk to the Steward today, and I know Lord Faramir will make sure the right thing happens."

She hesitated until Nik looked at her, and added, "When two honourable people meet, Nik, there are no lies or deception. We will hear the truth, here. I promise you that - even if we all have to ride to Emyn Arnen and sit right in Lord Faramir's parlour until he talks to us!"

Nik's grin began to reappear at Erin's suddenly fierce expression. Before he could respond, though, her thought rushed on ahead.

She scooped up the basket and abruptly said, "This is too much thinking for a sunny autumn afternoon. What I really think we should do is tell each other stories."

Russ quite literally stared with his mouth open, at a total loss how to respond to that unexpected declaration. Fortunately, Nik recovered quicker.

"Stories?" he inquired eagerly. "Oh, I like stories. In the evenings, Teach often tells me tales of people and places and long ago things. What kind of stories do you like?"

"Well," said Erin, "I think we could take turns. I will tell a story about the Shire, then Russ will tell a story about the Misty Mountains -."

"I will?" asked Russ.

"Of course you will. And then you, Nik, could tell a story about living out on Russ' farm. Don't you think that would be fun?"

"Yes, I do," replied the little Uruk-hai. "But don't you think we should get something for the picnic basket, to nibble while we talk?"

"We'll make a hobbit of you, yet!" laughed Erin. "Come along, we'll get a bit of something to tide us over, and then we can sit under Alfgard's big chestnut tree. Come, Russ, don't just stand there."

The Beorning merely shook his head in wry amusement, but he followed the two small beings anyhow. He rather supposed this was a ploy to keep him from brooding overmuch, whilst they all waited for an uncertain outcome. Perhaps he should be annoyed; but then again, it was a fair autumn day. Telling tales was indeed a more pleasant pastime than gnawing his paw over things beyond his control.

xxx

_Emyn Arnen - Mid-afternoon_

Talk between old friends and a lunch on the lawn proved a most enjoyable way to pass the time, despite the sense of urgency niggling at the back of Anardil's mind. Between their warm company and the babe crawling about looking for things to stuff in its mouth, he wished he could linger to savour the moments spent. However, fatigue and a full stomach over-rode impatience, and he fell asleep in the sun almost between one word and the next.

He awoke much later to find a blanket thrown over him, the sun had moved, and Elros' hand rested on his shoulder.

"Faramir has returned," said his friend.

Rising he felt even groggier than when he laid down. Nonetheless, he bid his friends a hasty but fond farewell, and strode forth. He found men of the White Company filing down the narrow way into Emyn Arnen like wolves returning from the hunt. Soft-footed and tall in their garb of green and brown, they bore with unshakeable confidence the great bows of the Ithilien Rangers, and keen swords hung by their sides. Faramir paced at their head with grey eyes alight, a statesman now, perhaps, but ever a Ranger at heart. Anardil understood that particular affliction well, and he stood aside from their approach with a one-sided grin.

Of course, Faramir spotted him immediately, and waved his men on as he stepped to the curb. "Well met, Anardil." One eyebrow lifted subtly. "At least I hope so. I trust you are not here on a social call?"

"No, my lord." Anardil met Faramir's searching gaze soberly. "I fear I bring a knot that wants your governance in untangling."

Beneath his hood, Faramir's expression turned grave. "I see. What is the nature of this knot?"

"The hearing in Henneth Annûn, my lord. I fear the witnesses have been tampered with, instructed to give false evidence."

Stateliness seemed to wrap about the young Steward like a second cloak. "By whom?"

Grimacing, Anardil replied, "That, my lord, is the knot."

Briefly, Faramir closed his eyes, and then speared the former Ranger with a glance. "Meet me in the library in one hour."

xxx

Ensconced at last in a comfortable chair amidst walls of books, Anardil sat beneath Faramir's brooding stare and willed his thoughts to clarity. Faramir had sought his own brief refreshment, garbed now in grey robes with soft shoes on his feet, but if he felt any weariness from his three days on patrol, he showed no sign. Thus, Anardil gathered himself to give his report. Of Margul he spoke firstly, and of the errant merchant's deeds in the past year, and the peculiar associations he had struck up in the village of Henneth Annûn.

Said he, "I believe Margul came to Henneth Annûn last spring for the sole purpose of disrupting the first orc hearings. He presented himself as the man of wealth and prominence all knew him to be, but he secretly set the boy, Cullen, and Sira the barmaid to spy on those testifying in support of the writ. I believe he thought himself completely justified in using every means at his disposal to assure that a change of law never happened. But it did - and he ruined himself in the process. My lord, you have Captain Halbarad's reports: the details are all there."

Ticking the items off one finger at a time, Anardil continued, "Sira claimed he planned to kill her and throw her head over the city walls, and blame orcs to inflame public opinion. Cullen is mortally terrified of him. That strange girl turned up dead in his house, and she is presumed to be yet another lackey of his. And then he disappears. Plus there is the orc attack on Sevi and our folks just outside the village. My lord…" He let his hand drop to the arm of the chair. "I'd bet anything I've got he was behind that, too. He's got the orc, Odbut, on his leash, now. Surely those others were his, too. Sira mentioned Odbut and other mercenary orcs."

"Sira was Margul's mistress, was she not?" asked Faramir, frowning.

"Yes, and I admit that damages her credibility. But when she sought my lady out, yesterday, to warn that Margul was back, she was truly frightened. Furthermore, Cullen's behaviour mirrors the same fears."

"I am to act on fears, Anardil? I need stronger evidence than that, if I am to halt the proceedings of the one hearing that may prove an orc innocent."

"No, my lord." Anardil puffed a short breath and bowed his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. The nap seemed to have only muddied his wits further. "The facts are these. Last spring, Margul hired Cullen and Sira to spy for him, while he plotted to disrupt the orc hearings. Now, he has made threats on Cullen's life, and the lives of his family. Which Captain Tarannon has taken seriously enough to post two Rangers at Farmer Tiroc's home whilst Cullen is in protective custody. Those threats were conveyed by Margul's orc, Odbut, when he told Cullen to watch for a signal from Khint, Lord Valthaur's clerk. And three of our primary witnesses have abruptly and drastically changed their stories, after having been seen in conversation with Khint. They have further almost removed themselves from their old circle of friends, which tells me they have found new ones."

"And you say that this boy, this Cullen, in panic blurted Lord Valthaur's name? Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," Anardil sighed. "Last spring, Margul directed Cullen to deliver a parcel to Lord Valthaur in Minas Tirith. What it contained, I don't know, nor can I imagine why Margul didn't send it by a more reliable courier. For all I know it was a box of rare Haradrim tea, but … why, if that were Cullen's only association, did he blurt Valthaur's name as the connection between Khint and Margul?"

"He did not tell you, when under questioning?"

With a chagrined wince, Anardil said, "He would only tell us that Valthaur terrified him, when he made his delivery. Though granted, Cullen has barely left the farm. Perhaps simply being in the same room with a man of Valthaur's authority was, of itself, enough to scare the simple fool half to death."

"I see." Faramir's fingers tapped a slow drum-roll on the arm of his chair. "Meanwhile, you are satisfied that Khint, at least, is involved in underhandedness."

"Yes. Absolutely. Why was Cullen supposed to watch for a signal from Khint - and then respond to it by running to Margul's pet orc? Why did previously friendly witnesses suddenly change their stories - using wording, mind you, that was not their usual manner of speech?"

Abruptly Anardil leaned forward, as a new thought leapt to mind. "And for that matter, Khint was not in court with Lord Valthaur yesterday, while those men gave false testimony. Why not? Did Valthaur send him on an errand? Or could Khint concoct a believable excuse for Valthaur to dismiss him for the day? My lord, I am suddenly finding it very troubling that a law lord would hold forth in court without his clerk at hand, and I cannot account for the man's whereabouts. Furthermore, our three turned witnesses disappeared directly after the hearing adjourned for the day, and they don't have any friends in town to stop with. Thus, I have to ask, are they being kept somewhere so that we can't question them until too late?"

"Yet you say they have already testified," the steward reminded them. "Perhaps they are simply celebrating the occasion with a three-day debauch."

Anardil paused, studying the younger man's face. "If that is so, one has to wonder if they were paid for changing their testimony. I seem to recall Darien mentioning he still owed them wages."

A tilt of Faramir's head conceded the possibility. "Be that as it may, your fickle witnesses are but pawns in the game. Our question is who is moving the pieces."

"Yes." The former Ranger lowered his head to drag his fingers through his tangled black hair. "And who the players are: Margul, certainly; Khint, probably; Valthaur … I cannot see it. I cannot imagine a man of his reputation undermining his own proceedings. Why else would he accept the case? Though he was not first on the list originally, was he?"

"No, the gentleman first on the roster took suddenly ill, leaving Lord Valthaur as second choice. But he accepted willingly, I assure you."

Mouth pursed, Anardil pushed his thoughts further. "Lord Valthaur was second choice. Does Khint serve as clerk to this other fellow?"

"No, he is personal servant to Valthaur, alone."

"And Khint has resided in Minas Tirith with Valthaur all these past months."

"Yes." Grey Númenórean eyes watched Anardil with the keen patience of a hunter.

"Has Valthaur taken any cases outside the city, since last spring?"

"No." Faramir shook his head. "His work has all been in Minas Tirith. Travel has become increasingly difficult for him, in recent years."

"Then Khint would have no inkling of anything to do with this case, until his master agreed to hear it, correct?"

"One would presume so. He would not learn of any particulars until Lord Valthaur chose to share them."

A slow growing sick feeling began to gather heavily in the pit of Anardil's stomach. "Then how under heaven was he able to arrive in Henneth Annûn two days before Lord Valthaur, and establish contact with Margul almost as soon as his feet hit the ground? Margul is a renegade, my lord. How would he be able to communicate at all with the clerk of one of the most powerful men in the realm? Unless he has help. Who is that help, Lord Faramir?"

"You had Cullen delivering a parcel to Lord Valthaur last spring. Do you suppose Margul could use the same or similar couriers to pass messages to the clerk?"

"Yes … but do you think Valthaur could be so entirely blind?"

"Perhaps. The case was actually reassigned several weeks ago. There exists ample time for Khint and Margul or any set of conspirators to set wheels in motion. In certain high circles, at least, word of Valthaur's involvement in the case was known some time before the hearing began."

"Of course." Anardil slumped in his seat and rubbed his brow. "I should have realised that. But where does that leave us? Margul is a fugitive from the City, a suspected murderer. One would think his connections amongst his patrons there are broken. Thus, how could he discover Valthaur's appointment when he is hiding in exile?"

"Perhaps…." Faramir's fingers rapped a quick drumbeat on his chair's arm. "It is the other way around. Someone in the City contacted Margul."

Anardil stared at him as mental gears turned again. "Aye. And Khint had plenty of time to do that. As Valthaur's clerk, it is entirely possible he had a previous acquaintance with Margul. Undoubtedly, many men share Margul's stance against any considerations for orcs, even some of his former clients. For Khint to get a message to him might be easier than we like to think. Blast…."

The steward's gaze grew shadowed as he settled back deeper in his chair. "Tell me what you think, Anardil. What is your gut feeling? I see in your eyes that you are reaching some uncomfortable conclusions."

"I am." Anardil swallowed, seeking to push down the knot of unease. "I think Valthaur must be aware of something. And if he is not involved, I think he must be turning a blind eye to his clerk's activities, tacitly approving them by his pretend ignorance, because Khint is serving a cause that Lord Valthaur privately agrees with."

"As you say, Valthaur has a very great deal to lose. Why would he permit this?"

"Because if Khint is caught out … Valthaur could disown him. He could claim the same theory I've been wrestling, that Margul bought Khint's collusion and that the two of them are conspiring after their own agendas. It would be an easy thing for him to brush Khint off to his own fate, leaving Valthaur looking like the victim of a faithless servant."

"Unless we can catch Margul and wring the truth out of him."

"Yes. Unless we have Margul."

One dark eyebrow lifted slightly. "Then I think you must find him, Anardil."

Anardil's sigh gusted all the way from the soles of his boots, and he scrubbed his hand over his face. "I was afraid you'd say that. And you are right. But the man is wily as a fox. We'll need to lay some sort of trap, some sort of plot or ploy to either draw him out or track him down…"

"But not today."

Anardil jerked his now-bleary gaze back to the steward's face, and saw Faramir wryly smiling.

"You are nearly out on your feet, Anardil. I want you to eat and rest, and not show your face to the waking world for at least eight hours. No -." He flung up a hand to ward the protest forming on the former Ranger's tongue. "You have given me much to think on. You certainly have convinced me that the hearing cannot proceed as matters stand. Will you return directly?"

"Yes, as soon as possible."

"Very well. Then leave me to pace and ponder, for now." Faramir braced his hands on his chair and pushed himself to his feet, reminding Anardil that he was not the only one weary from his toils. "When you return, you will carry my orders to take in Khint for questioning, and directing a reappointment to the bench, and asking Lord Valthaur to step down. That is the cleanest way I know to remove all taint from these proceedings."

As Anardil stood, he said wryly, "I doubt he will be pleased at that news. Has he ever lost or been removed from a case?"

Thoughtfully Faramir shook his head. "I don't believe so. Nonetheless, if his personal clerk has tampered with witnesses and corrupted the outcome of these hearings, he knows that the law and the demands of justice require that a fresh hearing be convened."

The steward reached to lightly touch Anardil's shoulder, turning him towards the door. "Rest, and I will send someone to wake you when I have composed my thoughts. I've some studying to do, and I suspect the hour will be quite late."

Anardil inclined his head respectfully. "I will be ready as soon as you command, my lord."

"Sleep, first." Faramir's touch became a firm palm between Anardil's shoulder blades. "I'd hate to learn you fell asleep off your horse half way back to Henneth Annûn and were eaten by wargs."

With a dry chuckle, Anardil nodded acquiescence. "As you command, my lord. But it is not only the miles that I find wearying. I confess the world itself is beginning to dizzy me, when I find myself arguing on behalf of orcs in opposition to one of Gondor's highest lords."

"The world changes," agreed Faramir. "But we must change with it."

"My lady and I discussed something very similar to that," Anardil acknowledged ironically. "Good day, my lord. I will await your word."

By some osmosis known only to lords and their servants, a man waited out in the corridor to show Anardil to a small but comfortable room in the guest quarters. By the time he shut the door, tossed down his saddlebags and shrugged off his cloak, weariness had begun pressing leaden hands on his shoulders. Nonetheless, he summoned the strength to make it to the bathhouse, where he sank gratefully to his collarbones in steaming hot water.

A pity, really, that he could not replicate his favourite previous visit when Sev shared the warm luxuries of the bath with him. Smiling, he leant his head back on the warm copper sides of the tub and let soft images of shining blue eyes and a delightfully rounded form guide him almost to sleep. He rousted himself just when he was about to turn into a man-sized prune, and fumbled his way back to his room.

There he dropped to his pillow with barely the awareness to kick off his boots. Let stewards, kings, and the powers-that-be carry the worries of the world, for now. While the sun still shone in its slow descent towards the western horizon, Anardil welcomed the dreamless depths of sleep.

xxx

TBC ...


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_October 26th- Henneth Annûn_

Four men sat hunched around a table in The Whistling Dog. Not even the tantalising odours of lunch preparations, which leaked from the inn's kitchen, could lighten moods soured by the betrayal of friends and the sudden, dreadful illness of Horus.

"How did he look?" Carrick asked the youngest member of the quartet.

"Sevilodorf wouldn't let me into his room." Evan responded glumly. "She wasn't sure that it was just mumps - said his fever concerned her and that she would not risk exposing anyone to the illness. Darien looked sick with worry. I did what I could: fetched and carried stuff from the apothecary, then they sent me and Neal back to let you know what was happening, and to get something to eat."

"Who feels like eating?" Bevin muttered, a most unlikely remark from a man who loved his stomach. "If I could get my hands on those lying…"

It was an inopportune moment for Ham and Tom to arrive. Scruffy, unshaven and grinning like idiots, they failed to notice Bevin's balled fists and Carrick's sneer of disgust.

"Boy, that was some night. I'm starving." Ham announced cheerfully. "What's for lunch?"

Neal pushed back his chair and stood, turning to speak directly into Ham's face. "Whatever's for lunch, you bloody well won't be eating with us. Go find the sty that your 'friend' is swilling in. Join Osric at whichever trough he's pigging."

Blinking at the insults from the muscular young man, Ham's face took on an aggrieved frown. "What have we done?"

Carrick jumped to his feet, almost toppling the chair. "How about lying through your teeth then running away to hide like the vermin that you are?"

"Lied? At the hearing, you mean? We didn't lie." Ham looked at Tom for moral support, but the thin man stood open-mouthed and speechless.

Bevin leant back in his seat. "We always knew you two were stupid, but if you think what you said to the law lord was anything but complete perversion of the truth, then you're too thick to be let out without a nursemaid."

"That's not fair." Tom found his voice briefly.

"No?" The gleam in Carrick's eye made Tom take a step back. "Not fair? Was it 'fair' that you three claimed Grady killed Landis by accident and that he was no danger to the woman and the orc? If I stick a sword in your guts and deliberately twist it round to mangle your innards, is that 'fair'? Is that an 'accident'?"

Ham and Tom did not reply; they seemed stunned by the image that the bearded man had painted of the time back in the cave.

"Beginning to recall the truth now, are we?" Bevin sneered. "Tom, you hollered like a girl at what Grady did. How can you have lied about it?"

"I didn't … it just got mixed up in my mind, then listening to Osric talk to that man made me think that it happened that way … the way I told it yesterday."

Evan picked the morsel from Tom's words. "What man?"

"The fellow with the eyebrows," Ham answered. "Didn't get his name, but he told us we'd done well at the hearing and that he had some rooms more comfy than the Cauldron where we could relax, and a cask of ale to boot."

Hissing in contempt, Bevin folded his arms across his chest. "Small payment for betrayal of your friends and breaking the laws of the King."

"We didn't break no laws," protested Ham, "and we didn't betray no one."

"Freely admits it then," Evan said in an aside to his brother, but the reference to double negatives sailed over Ham's and Tom's uncomprehending heads.

"Lying in court is breaking the law," Bevin insisted.

"I didn't lie!" Tom's voice verged on a wail. "And who did I betray?"

Now Evan stood and faced the pair. "Me and Neal, Carrick and Bevin, Darien and Horus - your friends, remember. Then Sevilodorf … and Nik."

"But he's an orc," said the thin man. "How can anyone betray an orc?"

Carrick laughed mirthlessly. "Must admit it takes some doing, but you two managed. Compared to you, Nik is a model of honesty. Not to mention that he has a darn sight more brains and a far better memory."

"I got confused, that's all." Tom rubbed a finger up and down his stubbly cheek. "It was so long ago, and Osric seemed so sure about what happened."

"Yeah," agreed Ham. "We can go back into the hearing this afternoon and say we were mixed up."

Evan shook his head slowly. "No, you can't."

"I can. Where's Darien? He'll give us another chance."

In a quiet but firm voice belying his years, Evan explained. "You cannot go back into the hearing because there is no hearing. And Darien will not give you anything; he's too busy worrying about Horus."

"What? What's happened?" Tom gripped the back of a chair.

Bevin looked up at him with an expression of loathing. "Horus has fallen seriously ill. He is confined to bed at the Rohirrim's stables. The hearing cannot go on until he recovers … if he recovers."

"No!" Tom abruptly bore the look of a man feeling a bridge crack when he was only halfway across. "How did that happen? When did it happen?"

Ham received no answer - another man entered the room and all eyes turned to watch his approach.

"Here you all are." Osric grinned. "What's the glum faces about?"

Tom replied, "Horus is sick."

"Well, there's a pity. None of our concern now, Ham, Tom. We've done our bit. Only remains to collect our wages and then we'll be off to the city."

Looking as though he might explode from an excess of confusion, Tom asked, "What? Where? Why?"

Genial and perhaps deliberately oblivious, Osric winked. "I've had some business advice from our friend, and I'm off to Minas Tirith to make my fortune. I'll need a couple of reliable hands to do the fetching and carrying while I do the buying and selling. I'm offering you two the jobs. You'll do better under my leadership than Darien's."

The two potential hands exchanged worried glances, but Osric continued outlining his plans. "I'll need another word with Cameroth about that hang-over remedy. Is he around?"

A variety of nonplussed and murderous expressions greeted this enquiry, so the stocky man blustered on. "Anyway, we better find Darien and get our money. Someone must know where _he_ is."

"With Horus!" Carrick spat the reply through his beard. "At the stables."

"Then that's where we'll go." Nodding to Tom and Ham, Osric said impatiently, "Come on."

Evan made a quick gesture to his friends to go along with what he was about to say. "I think that would be a mistake, Osric."

"Why?"

"Russ is there. He didn't like what you said at the hearing and he's angry enough to rip you to threads."

"I'm not scared of him."

"I am." Ham and Tom both said at once.

"Why take the risk?" Evan asked. "I can fetch your wages without anyone getting upset. You can stay here and have your lunch."

Rubbing a knuckle under his nose, Osric contemplated the offer. "Why not? Food sounds good - smells good. Go on then, lad, and mind it is a full quarter's worth that Darien hands over for us."

Cockily, Osric pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down. "Well, let's shout for some grub."

While Tom and Ham squirmed uncomfortably, Carrick nodded to Neal to sit then took his own seat alongside Osric. Three of the group were clueless; the other three knew that Rangers would soon be on their way.

xxx

Bevin speared a slice of roast beef from the neglected plate across the table. "Shame to see good food wasted," he remarked to his three companions.

Nodding in agreement, Carrick lifted another cooling platter to scrape the potatoes onto his own then offered it to Neal. "Want more cabbage? It's supposed to be good for blacksmiths."

Neal took the plate and asked, "How so?"

"I dunno. Something my old mum used to say. Told me I needed cabbage to build my muscles. I'd rather have potatoes, though."

Evan waved away his brother's attempt to give him the remaining carrots, his attention fixed on the men in the corner. Captains Halbarad and Tarannon sat deep in intense discussion with Osric, Ham and Tom.

Serves them right, Evan thought, hoping the three liars would be locked up in the town's garrison. He had found it hard to change his opinion that all orcs were, and always would be, evil. But he would not lie nor fool himself in the face of clear evidence. He _liked_ Nik, and he disliked Osric. Watching the stocky man mouthing at the Rangers, it struck the youth that Osric seemed more like an orc than Nik did. Something beneath the visage of the man leaked out like sweat and smelt of corruption.

Pushing his plate aside, Evan said, "I can't eat, not with Horus sick and those three…"

"We all feel the same." Neal gripped his brother's shoulder. "But we need to keep our own health to be of any use to the others."

A shadow fell between them when Tarannon stepped into the light from the window. "Yes, you need your health and strength, and I need it too. Ham and Tom have sworn to remain in town until after the hearing is done with. Osric has also, but I have less faith in his word. There is an extra room here now; two of my men have moved elsewhere. Tom and Ham will take that. Osric will stay with Carrick and Bevin. You must not let him out of your sight."

Finishing chewing a mouthful of meat, Bevin asked, "Why not just lock him up?"

"For what? No judge has yet ruled on the integrity of his evidence. I can only issue an order that he remains in the village. If he leaves, I can arrest him, but it would be better if he stays of his own will … and speaks when wiser minds are listening."

With a doubtful grimace, Carrick remarked, "So you want us to be nice to the viper."

"Bide your time and be watchful, is all I ask."

Halbarad appeared at Tarannon's side, his expression grave. The three other men came back to the table, but while Ham and Tom peered about helplessly, only Osric complained loudly about his missing meal.

A lace-gloved hand took Osric's empty plate. "There's no meat or potatoes left. You want a double helping of pudding? It's that or go hungry."

Osric glared at the redheaded waitress. "At least double, wench."

Sira gave him a look that would have curdled the blood of a more sensitive man. "If you're wanting to eat, you'd do better to learn some manners. Now what will it be?"

From behind the counter, Cameroth watched the exchange with concern. A sympathetic shrug from Halbarad, however, reminded the innkeeper that he had agreed to let the oaf and his two cronies stay. As good as the hearing might be for business, Cameroth hoped it would not be delayed too long. For some reason, Sira had been more moody than usual recently, and he worried that the likes of Osric might provoke her into stronger retaliation than black looks and sharp words.

xxx

_October 26 - Late evening_

Handle glinting red in the firelight, the knife flipped slowly end over end. To one unfamiliar with the man, it would be taken as a sign of boredom, or nervousness. But the ragged creature crouched a short distance away had more intimate knowledge and did all he could to remain unnoticed.

"Grom."

Creeping forward, the orc kept his eyes carefully downcast for the very silkiness of his master's voice set a cold finger upon the back of his neck.

"Aye, sir."

"I have a task for you."

The orc licked his lips, but held his tongue as no response from him was required.

A long moment of silence passed, and elegant fingers, greatly at odds with the speaker's rough beard and clothing, continued to deftly toss the knife. At the hooting of an owl in the nearby trees, silvery green eyes glanced briefly toward the surrounding woods then returned to the fascination of the spinning blade.

Finally the gentle voice spoke once more, "Yes, a task requiring great care. You will not fail me, will you?"

With fervent protests of his undying loyalty, Grom pledged to complete whatever task his master set.

A raised brow halted the orc's babbling mid-word. "Make no promises you cannot keep; those left unfulfilled will haunt you to your death." A mirthless smile creased the man's face and the orc retreated once more into silence.

"Your task is twofold. First, go into the village and discover any information there might be regarding Odbut. He is delayed, and I wish to know why." The knife halted briefly as the man waited for an answer.

"Find the reason Odbut didn't show," Grom repeated.

"Second, leave three stones stacked one atop the other at the well in the marketplace."

Grom rubbed at his ear. "But I thought that man already told…"

A vicious slap to the side of the head knocked Grom sideways. A snarl twisted the orc's lips until he realised the knife the man had been so idly tossing was now planted against his throat and a hard knee wrapped in dilapidated cloth pressed against his chest.

"I do not wish you to think, Grom. Is that understood?" The knife pressed harder into the thick neck drawing a trickle of black blood.

"Aye, sir." The orc's mumbled apologetic words were met with a sneer, though the suffocating knee was removed.

"You will make your way to The Black Cauldron and tell the owner I sent you. He will find work for you that allows you to roam about freely. The head orc at the Cauldron is Lorgarth. He will follow the owner's order so you have no fear of him."

"Aye, sir. First, find Odbut. Second, three stones at the marketplace. I've got it."

"See that you return by sunrise tomorrow, or I will have to come searching for you myself."

Grom rubbed at the wound on his neck, and nodded.

"Good lad. Now toddle off. Be watchful and let none track you back to this place."

xxx

The smell of pipe weed drifted from quiet shadows that nearly, but not quite, concealed a huge, hunched shape. Russbeorn sat there beneath the chill stars, puffing his pipe and pondering before bed. This day the Steward in his great house would have heard the tale of all that happened, here. This night the Steward perhaps paced his noble hall and bethought himself of how best to manage affairs.

One hoped. Unfortunately, Russ found precious little cause for hope, in any of this. For a man, yes, the extraordinary might be done, the halting of a hearing to discern if a killing was murder. For a man, honourable things such as clemency and wergilds could settle the matter with relative ease, and amidst much bowing and clasping of hands, all would be finished.

But this was not a man, this was Nik the Uruk-hai, and those who arrayed against him were the very men who had sworn themselves to truth, those months ago.

"All is not lost, Russ." A soft footfall identified the presence of Halbarad behind him.

The Beorning drew on his pipe and did not turn.

"Two of those fellows came in today," Halbarad continued quietly. "Ham and Tom."

Fragrant smoke puffed quickly. "Sheep, to Osric's goat."

"Yes. But they are realising their error. Neal and the lads gave them a good talking to."

"And the goat?"

"Captain Tarannon and I talked to Osric. The man is an ass."

Russ puffed a moment more then said, "Testimony that changes like the weather. Do you think tomorrow will bring sunshine or rain?"

A gusty sigh revealed Halbarad's uncertainty. "Anardil will return with word from the Steward tomorrow. We'll get our second chance."

The pipe abruptly decided to go out, and Russ closed his great hand gently around its still-warm bowl. "Our last chance. Nik thinks your Lord Faramir a man of honour. I hope his faith is well-placed."

With that he stood, suddenly looming huge and primordial in the darkness, a vast shape from some other-when, almost dwarfing the tall Ranger.

"Good night, Captain," Russ said, and silently walked away.

xxx

Careful to keep the door in hand, so that it would not swing to with a crash as it was wont to do, Lorgarth made a quick inspection of the rudely constructed shed. It was scarcely large enough for four. His lads had been enjoying the extra space available due to Odbut's continued absence, so with the addition of this new one, there were bound to be fights when Odbut reappeared. Mayhap on the morrow he would borrow Lugbac and set him and Corbat to knocking down two of the other huts and using the boards to build one larger shed just for sleeping. The more space his lads had to spread out the better they would keep their tempers.

Lorgarth muttered a curse. Even with the extra space, there would be fighting to re-establish their ranks. There always was when a new lad arrived - especially one just out of the hills. Not that Lorgarth believed that tale.

By appearances, this one had been dining on rock lizards and beetles for quite a while, but his speech told another story. Grom, as he called himself, had obviously been spending time around the tarks. Even the brainless owner of The Black Cauldron could understand the lad's words. And then there was the way he had arrived and gone straight to the tavern keeper. Those coming out of the hills had a tendency to twitch around the tarks, but not this one. No, he'd been cool as ice, eyes down and skeletal shoulders hunched in the attitude of a beaten dog. An attitude that Lorgarth would wager his eye-teeth was a sham.

But there was nothing to be done about it. The tavern keeper's orders were plain enough: the new lad was to be his personal servant and subject only to his orders. What a pig like Drath needed with a personal servant no one would ever know; but if it kept the man happy, Lorgarth would have been all for the idea, except for the discontent it would breed amongst the others.

With a shrug, Lorgarth pulled the door closed. He would do what he could. Give the lads more space, a treat or two and make sure their barrel of ale was watered down. For tonight at least, they were all tucked up in their beds - except for the still roaming Odbut.

Lorgarth considered how he would have handled such a case in the past. Even under the Eye, there had been lads who lit out for the hills. They were always caught and returned to become lessons for the others. It was all so much simpler then.

Making his way toward the river, Lorgarth inhaled deeply. That Ranger boy had been here, and something else: not man, nor beast, but an odd mix of both. Nostrils flaring, Lorgarth attempted to sort the odours. The familiar musk of those of his own species and the coppery scent of tark mixed with the sour smell of the refuse from the tavern overpowered all else, but then he caught a faint whiff which caused him to freeze and stare out into the darkness.

The Ranger boy would be interested to know of this. Though he hadn't asked recently, last spring he had been most anxious to discover any information concerning this particular snake.

Deciding it would be best to wait and contact the man in the morning, Lorgarth returned to his own shed and the pleasure of his lumpy straw mattress.

xxx

Even a full belly, the first he'd had in over a month, and the comforting rumble of orcish snores filling his ears were not enough to allow Grom to sleep deeply for long. His master expected results, not excuses. Thus after only a scant three-hour nap, the orc crawled silently toward the door.

A suddenly out-flung arm missed him by inches and Grom froze until Corbat muttered incoherently and rolled back toward the wall. Stepping over the final pair of outstretched legs, Grom eased the door open and slipped through.

Above the trees, adamant stars glistened. But Grom had no care for their beauty and kept his eyes fixed upon the darkness beneath the surrounding forest. Pausing once at the sudden appearance of an orange-striped tom carrying a limp rat between his teeth, the orc slid wraithlike along the path toward the village.

He dared not fail at this assignment, for only the faint hope that successful completion of this task would appease his master for his failure at the other kept him from throwing back his head and howling at the sinking moon. Thus far, no sign of Odbut was to be found. Neither Drath the owner, nor the four orcs working the tavern knew Odbut's whereabouts. There was little chance of him discovering the orc's hideaway. But he would keep searching; his master had left him no other option.

The night was chill, and those few who wandered wrapped themselves in shapeless wool to befuddle both the coolness of the air and the eager fingers of the dispossessed. Drawing the folds of the tattered blanket over his head, Grom crossed the main road and entered the empty market place.

Months ago, he attended a market day in another town. The market stalls overflowed with provisions, and the tarks shouted, laughed and bargained with each other in their yammering tongue. Only pausing their commerce to draw aside in repulsion as he followed at the heels of his master through the narrow aisles. Their eyes burned with hatred and several spat upon him. His master taught him to keep his own fury hidden, to feed it carefully and allow it to grow until the time was right, when the moment of release could be savoured.

Sweet indeed had been those times his master allowed him to slake the thirst of his vengeance. Never before had he tasted such succulent flesh, nor been encouraged to take pleasure in the pleas and screams. For the chance to experience those delights again, Grom was willing to do all that his master bid.

Reaching the well, the orc pried three good-sized stones from the base and stacked them one atop the other. Finally, he scratched the surface of the top stone with the mark he had been taught.

Now, he would widen his hunt for the errant Odbut before giving his report at dawn. Perhaps his master would allow him to be the one to punish the other orc for not returning. Grinning at the thought, he began his search of the village.

xxx

_October 27th- Emyn Arnen_

_Dawn_

Morning threw its soft yellow cloak across the sky behind the crags of the Ephel Dúath, when a soft-footed scribe made his way down the narrow ways of Emyn Arnen. His master had called for his services long before first light; however, he was well accustomed to Faramir's occasionally odd hours, and willingly did his bidding. Before a certain door the scribe halted, a small paper-wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. He rapped twice, and then stepped back.

Inside, Anardil awoke even as the man paused outside his door, and was not surprised by the sudden knock. He rose from his bed, slipped on his trousers and peered outside.

"Master Anardil," the scribe said, offering his package with a bow. "Lord Faramir bids me deliver this."

With an absent-minded murmur of thanks, Anardil took the packet and wished the man good morning. Closing the door, he set the parcel on a small table and plucked the loose knot that tied it. Two items lay within the wrapping: a small parchment scroll fastened with the Steward's own seal and a folded note on plain paper.

This Anardil unfolded, and pressed flat on the table. Swift, precise lines of script read:

_A _

_A pretty set of circumstances we seem to have come upon. There are various coincidences in V's career which may bear further study, sufficing to say fortune unerringly favours his endeavours. His opposition occasionally fares less auspiciously. I wonder if M. was active in one of these, as a singularly messy 'accident' coincides with his first appearance in Henneth Annûn._

_For the nonce, prudence must be the watchword. The matter at hand is by this missive suspended until another arrives to take the helm. That is also detailed within; you will recall Lord G. from previous associations. I happen to know his schedule is coming clear._

_The enclosed is to be given into the hands of Captain Tarannon or in his absence, Captain Halbarad, and none other. Meanwhile, remember with whom you deal, and grant him the courtesies due his rank, but use discretion._

_For pity's sake, find a younger fool to ride messenger next time!_

_Faithfully,_

_F_

Anardil smiled wryly at the last, but sobered as he bethought himself of what Faramir truly said. Evidently Valthaur's stellar record of never losing a case carried several suspicious circumstances behind it, which no one realised until Faramir set himself to collating the facts. A chilling thought, if one dared suppose Margul served an even darker purpose. It would be good news indeed, however, for 'Lord G.' to replace Valthaur in Nik's case. While Valthaur's contemporary in the realms of higher law, Lord Goldur had proven himself a very opposite in character and disposition during the first orc hearings. Nik would be well-served by this plump law lord's attendance.

Then he reread the note before carrying it to the small hearth, where the embers of last night's fire still glowed. As the note caught, he held it to burn over the chamber pot beside his bed, dropping it just before it singed his fingers. That done he swiftly stamped on his boots, gathered his clothing and gear, and slipped out into the chill of an autumn morning.

Halfway to the stables he stopped and sighed. "I got up and ate a big supper last night. Why am I hungry, now?"

As if in response, his stomach growled peevishly. "Now you're ganging up on me. Clearly I've been living with hobbits too long. Well, maybe Cook will have sausages."

With that, Anardil about-faced and headed towards the succulent aromas emanating from the garrison dining hall. For that matter, packing a good lunch might be a good idea, too.

An hour later, he slung his saddle over the back of a leggy bay courier remount.

To Gomel's long grey face peering over a stall door, he said, "Be at ease, _mellon nín_. Lord Faramir himself said he would arrange your safe return. You are brave fellow and you've earned your rest."

Moments after that, the former Ranger was in the saddle and pounding up the sunlit road towards Henneth Annûn.

xxx

_October 27th - Henneth Annûn  
__Early morning_

Khint returned the menu to the cook and nodded. "Lord Valthaur will be most pleased with these selections. Were you able to locate a new source for the pies as his lordship requested? The crusts of the two you served at the evening meal were decidedly unacceptable."

"Yes, sir. I took care of that." A muscle twitched beneath the man's left eye at the memory of the dressing down he had endured. If not for the loyalty he owed Captain Tarannon, he would have resigned.

"Very well. I am off for my morning constitutional. Master Willelmus will be down at his usual time, though his lordship will not dine until later."

"Then the hearing will not begin again today?" the cook dared to inquire.

"The Haradrim's condition has not improved sufficiently. Or so we have been informed."

"Poor man. My wife's cousin caught the bolgur when he was nigh on to thirty. Shrivelled one of his…" Khint's frown halted the tale. "Enjoy your walk, sir."

Placing his elegantly feathered hat upon his head, Khint stepped into the morning sunlight. From the first day of his arrival, the clerk had established this habit of taking a stroll before breakfast.

Eyes narrowed against the glare, the clerk made his way east toward the centre of town. He strode along purposefully, discouraging casual conversation from those already about the business of the day, and soon reached the town's marketplace. As it was a Thursday and not a market day, only those small shops forming the perimeter of the market square would open that day. But no one was up and about at this hour, save the baker who could be seen kneading dough inside his open door.

With a nod to the man, Khint paused at the well and drew a bucket of water. Using the dipper attached to the post, the clerk drank deeply; then tipped the topmost of the three rocks stacked upon the well's rim into the water.

Stepping briskly, the clerk walked almost to the point where the village's main thoroughfare met the King's road. Taking a lane leading off to the south, he made his way toward the river where the town's mill stood. With no grain being ground at the moment, the only sounds were the gurgle of the current and the splash of water from the slow turning wheel. The lane curved to run parallel to the river a short distance, then turned back to the north. Khint paused, readjusting his hat and looking around, then he left the lane and headed over the bank to the river's edge.

In a nook formed by the roots of an oak, a man sat fishing. The shaggy beard and shapeless hat did little to lend the fisherman consequence, and Khint's nose wrinkled at the heavy odour of mildew rising from the shabby cloak draped across a branch.

"Good morning, sir. A fine day to be fishing," Khint said, swivelling his head to check the nearby bank.

The bearded man lifted a sardonic eyebrow and replied, "'Tis to be hoped my luck improves. A rather slippery fellow managed to escape my line day afore yesterday."

"Did it?" the clerk responded. "Were you able to retrieve it?"

"Nar, even used my gaff and weren't able to haul it back. Mayhap someone else has picked it up. There's folks about right now who might be tempted to poach other people's fish."

With his moustache waggling in sympathy, Khint agreed. "Too true, too true. My own endeavours have been delayed again due to certain strange coincidences."

The fisherman smiled thinly. "Well now, I don't hold much with coincidence. Always seemed a bit too lucky for some and right unlucky for others."

"No truer words could be spoken."

"Myself, I make a habit of checking coincidences." Setting his rod down, the angler gestured to the sack beside him. "For example, that lost fish I was telling you about, well I've lost a knife as well. Set to searching for it, but it ain't turned up yet neither."

Khint's eyebrows drew together, bristling with suspicion. "You believe there might be a connection between your missing knife and the fish?"

"Might be they've somehow been found by someone who got no reason to do me a favour."

"Yes. Those trying to cause trouble often will do anything."

"Aye," from beneath the shapeless hat green eyes flashed, " I've known people who would stand afore a judge and lie without blinking, just to cause another man trouble."

Khint nodded solemnly. "I follow your line of thinking. I will investigate a bit more carefully those coincidences that have delayed my business."

"Aye, and while you're out and about, keep an eye open for my knife. I've honed it to a fine edge and hate to lose it."

"I'll do that; meanwhile, I bid you good day." Khint's feathered hat nodded a farewell.

The fisherman had already taken up his rod again, his attention fixed on the small float bobbing alongside a clump of reeds. "Good day, sir."

xxx

TBC ...


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_October 27th- Midmorning_

Sevilodorf stopped on the next to the final step and regarded the beetle-browed clerk with what Anardil called her "I don't have time for this" face.

"It has only been two hours since my last report to Lord Valthaur. I assure you that Horus' condition remains much the same."

Khint removed his hat and swept her a deep bow to which she responded with a sharp nod and a tightening of her lips. "No doubt, madam. However, in my time in his lordship's employ I have learned that it is best to dot every 'i' and cross every 't'."

"In other words," Sev interrupted, "you are here to discover if my patient is indeed ill. Sir, such an impugning of my honour would not be tolerated in Rohan."

The law clerk bowed low once more, then said, "Pray do not interpret the matter in that fashion. It is merely my duty to see that all things are conducted properly."

"It was my understanding that it was Lord Valthaur's, but far be it for me to stand between a man and his duty. Come along."

Turning about, Sev started to climb the stairs, then stopped suddenly and frowned down at the clerk. "You have had it before, haven't you?"

"What?" Khint questioned.

Sev rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Master Khint, I have neither the time nor the patience to engage in games with you. You were there yesterday when Master Banazîr related the particulars of what he believes is wrong with Horus. I assume that Lord Valthaur does not employ you out of the goodness of his heart; therefore, you are an intelligent man possessed of an adequate memory. I repeat, have you had bolgur before?"

"Yes, madam," Khint replied meekly. "When I was seven."

"You should be safe enough," Sev replied, and turned her back on the clerk. Reaching the top of the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. "I will admit to admiring your bravery. Most men find even the mention of the possible consequences somehow painful. Few have the courage to risk infection. No matter that I assure them it is extremely rare for someone who has experienced the disease as a child to take ill a second time."

"Rare, but not unknown?" The law clerk's voice held a slight note of concern as he joined the Rohirrim healer on the landing.

"Extremely rare." The woman's blue eyes glinted, and a muscle in her jaw twitched when she motioned the clerk to follow her down the corridor. "But then those few cases more than make up for it with their severity."

A small stack of clean linens sat to one side of the door before which Sev stopped - also an empty bucket smelling strongly of lye. Gathering the linens, she faced the clerk.

"Perhaps we will discover that such is the case with Master Horus. Until now he has been in no condition to give us much information; but as I reported to Lord Valthaur, his fever peaked just before dawn and is slowly ebbing. He will require time for recovery, however the worst appears behind us."

With that, Sev pushed the door open. A sweet candle had been placed upon a small folding table set between the room's two narrow beds; yet its delicate perfume and the half-open window could not dispel the foetid odour of illness. Also upon the table stood a basin in which the silver-haired Celebsul dipped a cloth. As the elf glanced toward the door, he wrung the dripping cloth, releasing the sharp scent of peppermint.

Setting the clean linens on the second bed, Sev motioned the clerk into the room. "Cel, I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting Lord Valthaur's clerk, Khint. He has arrived to dot every 'i' and cross every 't'. Master Khint, Celebsul of The Burping Troll."

The elf lifted one elegant eyebrow at this introduction, then replied in a low voice, "_Mae govannen_, sir."

Whatever greeting the clerk had thought to make vanished from his lips as Celebsul proceeded to lift the bottom edge of the sheet covering the somehow shrunken form of the Haradrim and apply the wet cloth to the soles of the man's feet.

Whispered words of relief and thanks issued from the patient who otherwise lay unresponsive to all else in the room.

Sev stepped around the clerk and collected a neatly tied bundle of soiled linens from the foot of the bed. Her lips quirked with amusement as she said, "Oil of peppermint. It serves as a fever reducer and can also be used to settle the stomach so the patient might take sustenance."

"Feed a cold, starve a fever. I believe that is the adage my old nurse would recite upon occasion," Khint said, recovering some of his aplomb.

"If the fever continues, do you starve your patient into his grave?" Sev snapped and dropped the bundle of linens outside the door. Then, when the elf cocked his head in her direction, she pressed a hand to her forehead. "Forgive me. I fear I had little sleep last night."

Dipping the cloth once again into the basin, Celebsul replied, "She does not trust elven healing, Master Khint. Though I have found it most conducive to a long life."

The Rohirrim woman's laugh startled Khint. He blinked in amazement as she said, "Tell him the truth, Celebsul. I don't trust anyone. I haven't even let Darien in here for more than ten minutes at a time."

"Why is that?" Khint's pointed question earned him a raised elven eyebrow and a Rohirrim snort.

"Such plain speaking is most welcome, sir. All of this protocol ties me in knots." Sevilodorf sank onto the second bed and met Khint's eyes directly. "As much as I respect Master Banazîr, I fear the possibility of some unknown ailment. I have lost too many patients to 'simple' illnesses. I do not wish to lose this one, nor do I wish to start an epidemic. Celebsul is safe; as you will be well aware, elves do not fall victim to disease. I will risk myself, for that is my duty as a healer. But I will not allow others to do so. Having said that, it is time for you to go."

Khint looked from the Haradrim plucking at the linen so starkly white against his skin, to Celebsul's wry expression and back to the frowning woman: rumpled clothing, hair tucked severely beneath a kerchief, and dark circles beneath blue eyes, all spoke clearly of her fatigue.

With a nod to the elf, Khint again bowed to the healer. "Forgive me for intruding, madam. Please understand…"

Sev waved aside his apology. "My people are well acquainted with the demands of duty. I hope you understand where my own duty lies."

Khint's eyes gleamed, but he said only, "Again, forgive the intrusion, I will let myself out."

Sev closed her eyes and counted the slowly fading footsteps, then mentally followed the man down the stairs and out the door. Only after enough time had passed for the clerk to reach the lane to the village did she throw herself back on the bed and mutter, "My mother would be so ashamed of me."

"As would mine of me." Horus sat up in bed and managed a slight grin. "Though this deceit carries its own punishment; I still feel as weak as a kitten."

"Deceit?" Celebsul asked before supplying his own answer. "It is no lie to say you are ill, nor to suggest that your symptoms resemble those of mumps."

Kneeling upon the coverlet, Sev grimaced. "It is not the honest work of a healer to make a man sick."

Horus shook his head. "It is, if by so doing, a life is saved. Let us hope that Anardil is not delayed long in Emyn Arnen, and that the Prince takes our concerns to heart."

xxx

Shadowed by their helms, Khint could not see the eyes of the Guardsmen as he took their reports regarding the comings and goings at Alfgard of Rohan's stable yard, but their voices told a tale of men believing their duty inconsequential and unnecessary.

"You've seen no sign of the other Ranger?" Khint asked when the laconic tale wound to a halt.

"Well now, sir, he's not exactly a Ranger, is he?" A jagged scar marred the smooth line of a grey-speckled beard. "I mean, he's great friends with Captain Halbarad, and Tarannon will have a pint with him when he's in town. But the way I understand it, he's gone into the trading business. And that's where he's gone now, at least according to the stable hands."

His partner, like enough, save for the scar and the fact he was even slower in thought and word, to be close kin, scratched at a faint rash dotting his forearm and added, "Married into it, you might say."

"How is that?" the clerk's brows drew together. Here was an opportunity to confirm the information concerning those residing at The Burping Troll.

"You know Sevilodorf's his woman?" The first guard paused for Khint to signal his knowledge of this fact. "Her kin own the stable yard and do all the trading. Alfgard's only a manager. It's said she receives a nice profit for her share each quarter."

"Her share?" repeated Khint.

"Widow's portion, so old Raberlon says. Though you can't always be certain what he's saying. He doesn't speak the Common Tongue too plain."

His itching appeased, the second yawned and said, "There's the stones too."

"What stones?"

"The ones they trade for the orcs. Etharon pays a fair rate for what they bring in. He polishes them all up and makes geegaws and things to send to the City."

"Then there are stones," Khint blinked slowly. "I thought that was just a tale Lord Darien and his men had told."

"They aren't worth the time and trouble to pay a man to dig them out; but if you use orcs to do the work, you can clear a tidy profit. You don't think all this hullabaloo's over that runty little orc, do you? Who would care? Real reason's the profit to be made. The Rohirrim are sharp traders. You'll see."

"I believe I already do," the clerk pulled his hat firmly down against the freshening breeze and looked back toward the stable yard. "Yes, I believe I see a great deal."

xxx

_Noontime- Road from Emyn Arnen to Henneth Annûn_

Little winds rushed and whirled along the empty road to Henneth Annûn, their passage marked in skittering gusts of leaves in brown and gold. They were harbinger, perhaps, of changing weather, but here in the lee of the Ephel Dúath, the crisp autumn sunshine cast nets of shifting shadow upon the earth. Overhead, solitary white puffs of outrider clouds glided serenely amidst the blue.

The breeze soon picked up a quick handful of dust, which burst from beneath the hooves of a galloping horse as it came around a bend. The rider's dark hair swept over his shoulders, while his lean, straight form moved in perfect time with the horse's long-legged stride. Though long, wearying miles lay behind him from Emyn Arnen, the last leg of his journey was at hand. With any luck, he would arrive at the village of Henneth Annûn within the hour.

Or so Anardil thought, until his horse stumbled heavily and pulled up in a hitching stride. Frowning, he checked the horse's speed down to a trot, which levelled and smoothed once more.

"Now, lad," he murmured. "Don't scare me like that."

As if in response, the courier-remount horse stumbled again, and this time broke to a peg-legged walk, punctuated by a metallic clanking. Anardil smothered an oath, and in the middle of the empty road, he dismounted and stepped back to eye the animal's legs. It held the right front hoof cocked up, and now Anardil could see the iron shoe skewed sideways, twisted almost completely off its nails.

With a growling sigh, he tapped the horse's leg and caught its hoof in his hand when the leg obediently rose. As he feared, the shoe was worn almost through, the nails all but pulled free - and clearly, the poor animal had trod upon a stone.

"Confound it!" Anardil let the hoof drop and he straightened to pat the horse's sweat-damp neck. "Why didn't I check your shoes before we left? I bet you'd like that thing all the way off, wouldn't you lad? Unfortunately, you've an idiot for a rider today."

Wishing impossible wishes, he glared stormy-eyed at the offending shoe. However, a man with one arm could only overcome so many obstacles, and the mechanics of removing a half-thrown horseshoe were beyond his abilities.

Teeth clenched, he scooped up the trailing reins and stared up the suddenly too-long road home. He realised he stood equidistant between the last remount station and Henneth Annûn. It was a lovely day for an autumn stroll, but this was rather more strolling than he cared to make, especially with urgency snapping at his heels.

"Probably seven miles," he grumbled. "As far to go back, as it is to go on. Well, nothing for it but to start."

Shaking his head at bitter luck, he tugged the limping horse to follow. There he set his feet on the long trudge towards the village, the horse clanking its painful way behind.

xxx

The rays of the sun slanted into early afternoon, when Halbarad paced silently from ranks of slender trees that framed the southerly road. No sound did he make, and the greys and browns of his garb rendered him nearly invisible, if he chose to stand motionless. Now, however, he moved with a hunter's steady grace, bright eyes seeing every detail, from the tracks of a deer to the whirring flight of a flock of sparrows.

At the road's edge, he paused to scan the wiry tangles of bare limbs and dry leaves. Something teased at the edge of his senses, and he tried to reach beyond hearing.

Soon, movement caught his eye and a misshapen, trudging figure appeared at the next turn in the road. He blinked, and the shape resolved itself to a limping horse led by a visibly weary man. A wry grin turned his lips, ere Halbarad slipped back into the concealing thickets.

Moments later, he drew even with the plodding twosome, moving silent as a ghost himself. Crouching, he edged closer to the road, a bramble thicket as his screen. The off-rhythm clopping of the lame horse's stride grew louder. Halbarad's grin returned while he watched the man's head abruptly come up, suddenly keen as a hound catching a scent. Then a one-sided grin creased the man's face.

"All right, Halbarad. You can come out now."

Laughing, the captain stepped into the open. "Looks like you've run into a bit of ill luck there."

Anardil stopped, and glanced at the sad equine face that drooped at his shoulder. "Aye, I didn't walk around this fellow before I left the last remount station. Poor lad lost a shoe and got a stone bruise."

"Ouch." Halbarad grimaced. "How long have you been walking?"

With a huge, gusting sigh, Anardil replied, "Over two hours. What was left of the shoe fell off an hour ago. What brings you out here?"

They turned and began walking together, the horse following.

"Hunting," Halbarad replied. "For a mutual friend."

He laid a finger alongside his nose, and Anardil nodded.

"No luck, eh?"

"Nothing yet. But he can't be far. And meanwhile I'm keeping an eye out for you. Everything went well?"

Anardil patted a small courier's pouch that hung from his shoulder. "As we'd hoped."

"Excellent. Come, there's a back way in, and we can find Tarannon and plan our next moves."

At a touch on the sleeve, Anardil followed Halbarad off the road and into the woods and fields.

Some while later, limping horse and trudging men found their way up a narrow alley towards the small compound that served as headquarters for the Ithilien Rangers in the village. Leaving the horse to a sympathetic stable hand, the pair chose an equally circuitous route to the building that comprised the heart of the complex. Through a back door they went, and thence to the room used as the commanding captain's particular realm.

Anardil and Halbarad both lay draped comfortably over a pair of chairs, when Tarannon's step sounded beyond the door. He walked inside, and paused, head cocked as he regarded Anardil critically.

"You look like something the dog dragged in."

"Thank you, Captain," Anardil replied dryly. "You know how to make a man feel welcome. Please, have a seat."

He waved his hand towards the captain's empty chair, and bit down on a grin to see the hard glint of severity that appeared in Tarannon's eyes. A sense of humour clearly was not part of standard Ranger issue.

"Since you have made yourselves at home," Tarannon said, "I suppose we can dispense with formalities." He rounded the single table, took his seat, and leaned back to lace his fingers across his flat belly. "Did your mission succeed?"

Anardil swung the courier pouch from his side, and shrugged its strap from his shoulder. "Yes, most admirably."

He tossed the pouch and Tarannon caught it, drawing out Faramir's sealed scroll. The captain slid a thumb under the embossed wax, gently prying it loose, and then spread the parchment flat on the table before him. In silent swiftness, he scanned the few lines, only a twitch of an eyebrow giving indication of his thoughts.

"Well, then." He let the scroll snap back into shape. "We shall attend to that shortly." Again his glance grew severe. "After we render you somewhat more presentable. First, however, Hal and I will advise you of a few matters that came up whilst you were gone."

"Hal already explained the hunt for Margul. I agree the man must be near, but I think we'll need luck or better leads to find where."

"True. Though perhaps the pieces are coming to hand."

Quickly Tarannon and Halbarad explained the previous day's events, of Ham and Tom coming forward to admit the clerk, Khint, had influenced them and certainly collaborated with Osric. Osric himself, of course, remained unrepentant and hostile.

"The three of them are effectively under house arrest," Halbarad said. "They can move about, but they must not leave the village."

Anardil's snort bespoke his thoughts of such delicate handling. "Is Osric still here, or has he already flown?"

"So far still here," Hal replied. "Abusing Cameroth's good nature, I'm sure. There is another thing, however. Odd, perhaps harmless, but troubling."

"Oh?" The one-armed man glanced from his friend to Tarannon's suddenly shuttered expression.

Halbarad shifted uneasily forward in his chair before speaking. "Evidently Lord Valthaur questioned Sevi as to your whereabouts."

Anardil went very still, eyes darkening.

"His choice of words was harmless," Hal continued. "At least according to Sev. But she found it unsettling enough to let me know. The fact he questioned her in front of his clerk, who should not be privy to your true work for the crown, was ill advised. And he made further remark about dark roads at night." The Ranger's expression twisted wryly. "The fact you are back safe renders such fears moot, but one could easily read that as a veiled threat."

Anardil's hand closed into a fist on his knee. "Captain Tarannon," he said quietly. "Have you a clean shirt or something that I might borrow? I think it is high time we put hobbles on a certain mûmak."

xxx

Captain Tarannon left Anardil and Halbarad waiting in his office while he went in search of Faramir's chamberlain. He found the man in the room allocated to him, and could see from the doorway that Willelmus had been writing copious notes before being disturbed.

"Captain." The chamberlain dabbed a spot of ink from his finger with a handkerchief. "What can I do for you?"

"By order of Prince Faramir of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, request that Lord Valthaur and his clerk attend my office forthwith."

Willelmus blinked, owl-like, several times before attempting to speak. "By … My … Who has spoken to the Steward?"

"Do you normally question your prince?" Tarannon's brittle tone made the chamberlain's back stiffen.

"No, Captain. I will do as you ask immediately."

A single nod then the Ranger strode away towards his office.

xxx

Minutes later, Tarannon called "Enter" to the knock on his door, and then he pushed himself up from the chair. Anardil and Halbarad, seated against the wall at either side of the desk, also stood.

In the open doorway, the chamberlain announced, "His Lordship, Justice Valthaur, and his chief clerk, Master Khint."

The law lord's majestic mass blocked all view of Willelmus and the clerk as he entered the room. His eyes fixed instantly on Anardil who stared back impassively.

Taking control of the situation, Tarannon instructed, "Please be seated, your lordship, Master Khint. Willelmus," the chamberlain paused in the doorway, "you should join us."

With that, Tarannon resumed his seat, as did his two colleagues. Thus three faced three across the office floor.

Valthaur sat as rigidly as his bulk allowed, and his eyes remained on Anardil for a long moment before he addressed the Captain of Henneth Annûn.

"What is the meaning of this disruption? Willelmus mentioned the Steward. Am I to conclude that some discourse has taken place between Faramir and Anardil, who arrives back at the moment of this summons?"

"Sir, allow me to convey the Steward's ruling before we enter any discussion."

Listening to Tarannon, Halbarad maintained a pose of peaceful composure yet felt absolute amazement. The starchiness of the local Ranger Captain, long viewed by many people as a vice, now proved its value as the man held his ground against one of the most powerful law lords in the kingdom. It was a struggle not to turn to examine Tarannon's expression as he spoke on.

"Your presence, Lord Valthaur, is only required because these proceedings concern an employee of yours and have a direct impact upon the hearing over which you preside."

A twitch of Khint's eyebrows offered the only evidence that he realised he might be the employee in question. When Tarannon turned his attention to the clerk, the twitching increased.

"There is considerable evidence that Master Khint has interfered with witnesses in the case of Nik of Isengard; sufficient evidence, in the view of the Steward, to detain him for questioning."

Valthaur looked as if he were about to protest, and the clerk turned an unhealthy shade of white. His dark moustache and eyebrows appeared even more prominent.

But Tarannon leant forward, propping his elbows on the desk and folding his hands. "This matter is beyond my control, or yours, Lord Valthaur. The Steward of Gondor has issued his orders and we must all comply. There are Rangers waiting in my annex to take Master Khint into custody. The possible contamination of evidence means that the hearing is annulled. Another judge will be appointed and the proceedings started afresh. You are most welcome, sir, to remain here and satisfy yourself that everything is carried out to the letter of the law."

Valthaur nodded, his chins rippling. "I would see Prince Faramir's orders."

"Indeed." Tarannon held out the scroll to Willelmus, obliging the chamberlain to rise from his chair and delivery the document to the law lord.

Silence ensued while Valthaur studied the text. Finally letting the scroll rewind, the law lord nodded again. "It is in order."

"Yes, it is," Tarannon agreed.

Khint's face turned to Valthaur, then to the Ranger captain, then back to Valthaur. His remarkable eyebrows twitched like small creatures leaping in a cage.

"No! If any dishonesty has taken place, it is that which delayed the hearing while a man rode to tell lies to Faramir. I've done nothing wrong."

Quietly, Lord Valthaur spoke. "Then you need have no fear, my dear Khint. Let the gentlemen discharge their duty and I will ensure that justice is done. Have patience. I am sure that Captain Tarannon will not cause you any unpleasantness while we untangle this … debacle."

Unbidden, Valthaur heaved himself from the chair. The sheer mass of the man suddenly took on the sense of an implacable force about to be unleashed, and his fleshy face chilled.

"I am displeased at this course of events," he said in clipped tones. "My clerk has served me loyally for many years and I trust you will ensure his detention is in no way onerous."

Having risen at the same time as the law lord, Tarannon replied, "Master Khint will be given secure but comfortable accommodation. I expect to receive further instructions in the near future."

"I am sure you do." Valthaur addressed his words to Captain Tarannon, but his eyes fixed on the one-armed ex-Ranger.

Of a sudden, as he watched the law lord exit heavily from the room, Anardil felt a chill tingle in his spine. He always knew the man was dangerous; now he wondered if he had underestimated that danger.

xxx

TBC ...


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_October 27th – Henneth Annûn _

Arms crossed, Sev stared morosely out the sickroom window. How could the sun still be in the sky? Surely, the requisite number of hours had elapsed. And how had it come to pass that once again she stood trapped in the eternity of uncertainty, that antechamber of hell reserved for those forced to remain behind while loved ones rode out to face danger?

No matter the reassuring words of Halbarad and Tarannon, she could not set aside the fear raised by Lord Valthaur's remark. The roads were dangerous at night, especially when one had enemies with powerful friends. Few roads were darker or longer than the one Anardil rode to Emyn Arnen.

She could sympathise with Cullen's refusal to speak more of that which so plainly terrified him, naming a demon gave it greater substance. However, she would prefer to see her foe; to meet him face to face in honourable battle. Not sit behind a false shield waiting for the enemy to reach from the darkness and snatch away all she held dear.

But raging against fate would serve no purpose, nor would sinking into despair. She had travelled those roads before. Instead, she must focus upon the task given her: to confound the eye of their enemy and buy time for others to fight.

Wearily, Sev turned from the window and back to the man muttering unknown words in a troubled sleep. There had been no hesitation on Horus' part when she first presented him with this mad idea. Would that she had his confidence in her abilities to succeed. That Khint was suspicious seemed evident by his earlier visit. Had she set his suspicions to rest or merely inflamed them? Nmad her sharp tongue.

No matter. None save Horus and Celebsul knew the truth, and she had insisted upon their solemn oaths that if the façade proved transparent she alone would pay the penalty demanded. If the appeal to Lord Faramir failed, perhaps she could simply admit to her stratagems. Making a key witness ill would be considered, as Hal might put it, exercising undue influence on his state of mind; thus providing adequate cause for a new hearing.

Whatever the outcome, she would administer no more debilitating medications. Horus would remain on the road to recovery, and whether for good or ill, would be ready to testify the day after tomorrow. Sev's lips quirked as she considered how Master Banazîr was certain to be pleased at the effectiveness of the mullein and lobelia treatment.

Returning her gaze to the window, she wondered what entertainment Celebsul had devised to occupy the minds and hands of both Russbeorn and Erin this afternoon. The hobbit, most aggrieved at not being allowed to assist in the sickroom, had spent the early part of the day fetching and carrying clean linens and devising a number of palatable puddings to tempt Horus' appetite. After the arrival of the sixth tray of the day, Sev begged Celebsul to turn his mind to channelling Erin's desire to help. With typical elvish equanimity, he had agreed.

A short time later, Sev had caught a glimpse of the silver-haired elf heading toward the barn trailed by the hobbit carrying a large cloth-covered basket; Nik with a lumpy sack over one shoulder; and Nora skipping alongside Russbeorn. It was only to be hoped that Alfgard's barn would survive the afternoon.

A floorboard in the corridor creaked softly, and Sev had only enough time to face the door before it opened.

Though the dark green tunic was unfamiliar, she knew only too well the tautness of his shoulders and the shadows beneath Anardil's eyes which bespoke a weariness of body and spirit that even a half grin and a wryly lifted eyebrow could not disguise.

"Do you do nothing by halves, Sevi?"

Relief for his safety warring with irritation at the teasing, Sev narrowed her eyes and replied, "You would have preferred Gubbitch setting fire to the Rangers' Headquarters?"

A softly accented voice came from the bed, "Your lady has done well, Anardil."

"For a man in your position that is most complimentary." Anardil cast the ailing man a sympathetic grin. "I never doubted she would succeed. I merely find myself flabbergasted at the level of thoroughness with which she accomplished the matter."

"A job worth doing is one worth doing well, you _loof," _Sev retorted with a stubborn tilt of her chin.

Anardil grinned and reached out to take her hand. "That it is, my dear; so you will be pleased to hear that I completed my own task with equal thoroughness."

"Lord Faramir was convinced," Sev declared clasping his fingers tightly.

"Not only will the hearing be reconvened with a new judge, but Master Khint has been taken into custody and a complete investigation has been ordered concerning the testimony of Osric and his friends."

As Horus pushed himself upright, Sev moved to set another pillow behind the Haradrim. She then took a narrow bottle and a spoon from the table. When Horus grimaced, she rolled her eyes.

"Ridiculous man. When I deliberately make you ill, you swallow it without complaint; but try to make you better, and you curl up your nose."

Anardil chuckled as Horus responded, "The first bottle tasted better."

"There's a lesson to be learned there somewhere," Sev said and held out the spoon now brimming with a thick dark liquid.

With a shudder, Horus swallowed then accepted the cup of water Sev handed him with a word of thanks. After sipping slowly, he directed a sharp look toward Anardil.

"The first steps are completed; now for the more difficult tasks."

Sev sighed when Anardil nodded. The past two days had been difficult enough to suit her.

"Yes, I fear it will not be so easy to locate the mysterious Margul, or investigate the very powerful Lord Valthaur. Nor," Anardil tipped his head toward Sevilodorf, "explain the deception which has been practised upon our friends. From what Halbarad and Tarannon have conveyed to me, none realise the strategy you have employed."

Sev frowned. "Celebsul knows, but swore not to give us away. Must we tell the others? We would not have succeeded if everyone had known the truth. It was easier for them to act naturally when they did not know the whole; but it will hurt them to think they could not be trusted."

"It is your plot, my dear. I will leave that for you to decide."

Fighting the desire to beg Anardil to assume responsibility for the scheme, the healer turned to her patient, "Horus?"

The dark man tapped his fingers thoughtfully upon the sheets. "With your permission, Lord Darien should be told."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Sev's shoulders slumped, but she nodded. "He needs to be told. He's worrying himself sick, and you will not fully recover from what I've done to you for another two days."

"What we did," Horus corrected.

"He's downstairs," Anardil said. "Hal and I stopped at The Whistling Dog on our way back to let them know what had happened, and Darien came here with us."

"Fetch him up then, if you please," Sev replied. "You won't rest until this is settled, and it is obvious you are done in."

Glancing toward the Haradrim and receiving a nod of agreement, Anardil left the room. Sev sank down onto the bed across from Horus and clasped her hands together tightly.

"Of all those we have deceived, Darien is the one who will most understand our reasons," Horus murmured after several minutes passed.

Keeping her eyes on her hands, Sev gave a jerky nod. "That's what makes it worse. I never truly forgave the deception Lord Darien practised by pretending to be a trader of gemstones; yet, I am asking him to forgive me. As I said earlier, my mother would be most ashamed. She placed a great store upon honesty."

Horus nodded solemnly and recited the verse he had quoted to Darien many days ago; "Truth is a point, the subtlest and finest; harder than adamant; never to be broken, worn away or blunted."

"Yet, we did exactly that," Sev replied bitterly.

"As have we all, at one time or another," Darien's voice from the door, and the intelligence shining in his eyes told Sev that Anardil had taken the actual burden of the tale upon himself.

Standing slowly, Sev bowed her head. "I am sorry for the worry I caused you these last two days, my lord. I sought only to accomplish the task set me."

"Mistress Sevilodorf, as you are all too aware, I am myself guilty of focusing upon a desired outcome and causing great distress to those who did not deserve to suffer at my hands." When Sev winced at his words, Darien softened his tone. "Take comfort in the fact that at least your cause was just. Mine was decidedly not."

"Since that time, you have more than made up for your error in judgement. I only hope that I will discover a way to make up for the anguish I caused you."

"I promise you there is no debt owed." Darien smiled and stepped to Horus' bedside, where he held down a hand. "At least, none that is not shared by this scoundrel. I arrived here grey, and I fear I shall leave white-headed."

Horus chuckled, teeth shining briefly in his dark face as he clasped the offered hand. His fingers tightened when he looked up at his lord and friend.

"Then I also ask your forgiveness," he said softly. "To prevent ill deeds, sometimes lesser evils must be done …but the burden of deception is never light."

To Horus and Sev's mutual surprise, Darien abruptly laughed aloud. In a sweeping move he seized a nearby chair and spun it to stand beside Horus' bed, where he seated himself comfortably.

"Listen, my friends," he said, and clasped his hands about one knee. "Today, for the first time in a very long while, I feel the clean wind of hope. Justice - true justice - may at last be within our reach."

Another smile illuminated his features, surprising Sev by what a fine-looking man he was, without the shadow of doom upon his face. "Mistress Sev, if you are truly repentant, I would beg you to inquire if there is a chess board in this house. Or any board game, actually. I feel the need to punish this scoundrel for his impertinence, and a thorough trouncing would seem just the remedy."

"Trouncing?" Horus arched one dark eyebrow. "As I recall our last match -."

Darien cleared his throat loudly, and gave Sev one last, beseeching smile. "If it pleases you, my lady?"

In the doorway, Anardil bit his lip and tried very hard not to laugh.

"Mad," said Sev, and snorted and shook her head. "The both of you are mad as mud hens." She flung both hands up as if freeing them of all further consequences. "Very well, I will ask, but you, Horus, must remember to exercise no more than your mind. You are not a well man, yet."

xxx

Leaving Horus in Darien's care, Sev directed Anardil to a tiny room at the far end of the corridor. Upon entering and finding his own gear settled upon the bed, he cocked his head and said, "Another of your strategies, Sevi?"

"Actually, Alfgard suggested we move your things out of the men's barracks. Given that your absence was supposedly due to some important trading mission. It made more sense that you would have taken your things with you."

"Ah, sensible."

Anardil shifted the small pack to a stool in the corner and eased himself onto the bed. Lord Faramir's admonition to choose a younger man for courier duty repeated in his head as his knees creaked and a wave of weariness swept through him.

"Not that anyone was likely to go into the barracks, but it did seem better to dot all the 'i's, so to speak."

Sev knelt to pull off Anardil's boots, and he frowned down at her dark head. "Now that's something I would expect the pompous Willelmus to proclaim."

"Actually," Sev set the boots against the wall, "Master Khint said it this morning when he paid me a visit."

The former Ranger's expression darkened. "I heard a bit about his visit and about Valthaur's questioning you. Hal said it frightened you."

Settling beside him on the bed, Sev nodded. "It startled me, and then worried me. Lord Valthaur should never have asked such a question in front of Khint. He knows your duties for the King are not to be mentioned, and that should have been the assumption he made concerning your absence."

"Aye, the good judge was made privy to such information during the trial in March. But his involvement in all of this is becoming more and more suspicious." Anardil tried unsuccessfully to hide a grimace as he straightened.

"Never mind. You're tired. All the sorting and sifting of information will wait until later. Unfortunately, it will all still be here. When was the last time you ate?"

Anardil blinked at the sudden shift in topic. "Tarannon's cook fed me a bite before our meeting with Valthaur."

Sev snorted knowingly. "Which do you want more? To eat or to rest?"

As she moved to stand, he took her hand to pull her back, then reached out and traced the shadows beneath her eyes with a fingertip. "Being an observant man, I would say that you would benefit from a bit of cozening yourself, _meleth nín_."

"A change of clothes, and I'll be presentable again." Sev frowned down at her well-creased tunic and reached up to pull off the kerchief covering her dark hair. "Though a long hot soak would be…"

At the sudden blossoming of Anardil's wide grin, she stopped and shook her finger at him.

"Don't go putting thoughts in my head, Anardil."

"Mm, but they are such lovely thoughts." His grey eyes twinkled as he slid his hand beneath her heavy braid and drew her close for a gentle kiss. "And I missed you last night."

Confound the man, still able to make her blush like a girl. However, before she could frame a reply, Anardil's own weariness betrayed him with a cavernous yawn.

Laughing, Sev gave him a stiff shove that toppled him onto the bed. "_Loof_," she said. "You are almost dead on your feet. Let me get the knots out of your shoulders, and then you need to sleep. Come now, roll over."

Obediently he rolled onto his belly, his mumbled protest lost in the pillow. She shifted her position so that she sat nestled beside him, and began kneading the long muscles of his back. A muffled groan of pleasure escaped into the pillow, and she smiled as she began the task of putting the dear, bone-weary fool to sleep.

xxx

Sunshine and a bench beside the barn; a man could scarcely ask for more than that. Russ hunched his massive form to a pose of utter ease and let the day's rare warmth bathe him in comfort. The wind bespoke a change on the morrow, so it was best to make the most of today's brightness. Nearby voices receded to little more than a buzz of sound. They spoke of naught that required his attention; so he gave in to the growing insistence to slumber that the season ever more strongly pressed upon him.

Not far away rested another man, a tall, weathered Rohirrim seated upon an upturned nail keg, expounding with hands gesturing to he who sat attentively at his feet. What raised the picture above the ordinary was the fact that, not so long ago, the man doing the telling and the person doing the listening had stood on opposing sides of bloody war.

Now, Nik the undersized Uruk-hai sat cross-legged on the ground, where he willingly absorbed everything his Rohirrim companion told him about the care of pregnant and nursing mares. In return Nik responded with countless questions and observations of his own. That sharing, Russ reflected distantly, was no small achievement. It was also due entirely to Nik's own efforts, for Russ had not troubled himself to win friendships that were not freely offered. Most people tended to keep their distance from a nine-foot-tall shape-changer; and frankly, that suited him just fine.

Nik, however, let his curiosity drive him, and the men who worked for Alfgard began to realise an eager mind lurked within that stunted form. In some ways, despite who he was and where he came from, Nik demonstrated almost childlike curiosity and simplicity. That spirit was what Russ so diligently sought to protect. The greater affairs, which weighed the world, were not his concern. What mattered were his friends, whether two-legged or four, and Nik had proved among the least problematical of the two-legged variety. Dismissing that thought, Russ drifted further into the warm ease of the autumn sun. Soon he began to dream of floating weightlessly over mountain forests cloaked in hues of crimson and gold.

A little while later, two sets of crunching footsteps prodded him to reluctantly open his eyes. Towards him walked the hunched form of Gubbitch the orc and the tall figure of Halbarad, captain of Rangers. Both wore pleased smiles. Russ sat up.

"Sorry to wake you, Russ," said Hal, as the twosome came to a halt.

"I was not asleep," Russ grumbled in reply. "I was merely resting my eyes."

Gubbitch chortled, while Hal scratched his nose to judiciously hide a grin.

"Now that they are open," the Ranger said, "you may be pleased to learn some good news. The hearing has been suspended and declared null, until a new justice can assume the bench."

At Russ' dubious stare, Halbarad elaborated, perhaps unnecessarily, "Lord Valthaur is off the case. All previous testimony is stricken from record. We get to start over again, Russ."

Undoubtedly the Ranger expected a more enthusiastic response, but here in his comfortable seat the words that rang in Russ' ears were "start over again". A powerful longing for the peace and quiet of his farm seized him, and he pushed it down with effort.

"Nik," he called. "The Captain has news for you."

Nik hastily made his excuses and leapt to his feet. He ran to join his friends and looked eagerly from one to the other.

"What news is that, Captain Halbarad? Is the Steward coming?"

"Actually -." Halbarad's smile bloomed across his entire face. "Yes, I believe he is. And Lord Valthaur is removed, while the clerk, Khint, is under arrest for tampering with witnesses."

"Under arrest?" Nik's eyes widened. "What did he do?"

Halbarad glanced at Russ and his expression gentled when he replied. "He convinced those men to lie, Nik. He urged them to give false testimony against you, so that you would be held for murder."

"But…" The little Uruk frowned. "Why would he do that? I never met him before this."

The Ranger shifted his weight uneasily. "It's not personal, Nik. Or at least I don't think so."

"Oh." Nik's face sobered. "Yes, I suppose I understand. I still look like the enemy, so they think it's all right to tell lies on me."

Russ held his tongue against the things he might have said. In his view, the cold truth was that the world of Men never would truly have a place for Nik. He would not speak thus, however, and let Halbarad hastily respond.

"Perhaps, but that's over now. Lord Valthaur and Khint are out, and Lord Goldur will take the bench as soon as he gets here."

At Nik's look of confusion, Gubbitch said, "Other big fella. Great huge hobbit, like, a sight friendlier than Valthaur."

Hal elaborated, "Last spring Lord Goldur was the justice who spoke in favour of rights for all orcs."

"Oh!" Nik brightened. "Erin mentioned him. She said he was nearly as big as Lord Valthaur, but ever so much nicer. Then he'll come listen to me?"

"Yes, just as soon as he can get here."

"And Lord Faramir, too?"

Smiling, Halbarad hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and rocked back on his heels. "And Lord Faramir, too."

"Did you hear that, Teach?" Nik positively vibrated with glee, a wide grin stretching his cheeks. "The Steward himself is going to come and listen! He'll get to hear the truth -."

Then he spun to face Halbarad, face suddenly anxious. "But the men who lied - what about them? Won't they just lie again?"

Russ closed his fists on his knees, and Halbarad gave a smirk. "Ham and Tom are fools, but they have been made to see the error of their ways. As for Osric … he'll rue his folly, Nik. Trust me on that. We'll see him stewed in his own juice, before this is done."

Slowly Nik nodded, his gaze turning towards but not focusing on the stable yard. "I don't care about that, really. Just so long as they tell the truth about what happened. And not only for me, you know?" He glanced at Halbarad and then at Russ. "It's for Mistress Sev and Horus and Evan and everybody who speaks for me. Because if people think I lied … what will they think of my friends? I don't want the Steward or any lord of men to think my friends were lying."

Halbarad shook his head. "That won't happen now, Nik. We'll make sure it doesn't."

Nik looked up into those steady blue-green eyes, and his grin quickly returned. "Well, I think it will be interesting to meet a giant hobbit. When will Lord Goldur arrive?"

"Within two days," Halbarad replied. "I expect he'll reconvene the hearing as soon as possible -." He glanced over Nik's head. "So you and Teach can go home."

Aye, home. Russ could be patient a while longer. He could let the wheels of justice grind, now that the chaff had been sorted from the grain. But his own farm and his own lodge and his own comfortable bed would be very welcome, indeed.

Placing both hands to his knees, he pushed himself up and stood. "Come, Nik. Tell me what you learned about tending to mares, and we'll see about a bite to eat."

As the curious pair moved off towards the kitchen, wiry little Uruk and hulking Beorning, an equally unusual pairing of orc and Ranger watched them go.

"All comes round right," said Gubbitch. "Takes time, but all comes round right, in end."

"Aye." Halbarad took a deep breath, just for the pleasure of doing so without tension restricting his chest. "It looks to be so, at last."

Together they turned and walked away.

xxx

A man long accustomed to the tides of a noble house, Willelmus realised full well that something extraordinary had occurred beneath this humbler roof. First there was Captain Tarannon's suddenly high-handed behaviour, for while a stern man, Tarannon was not known to be unreasonable. Then the entire scene with Lord Valthaur and his clerk, that was simply unprecedented. Why Captain Tarannon wished Willelmus to remain in the room seemed a mystery, unless of course he simply wanted a man of integrity to witness the proceedings.

Nonetheless, Willelmus silently sighed in relief, the moment he bowed Lord Valthaur into his room. The view of Khint being marched off in the custody of two tall Rangers was almost as unsettling as the grim silence enshrouding Lord Valthaur. In an effort to settle his nerves, Willelmus immediately took himself off to the dining hall, where he begged the cook for a small pot of tea and a piece of pie.

"Yours if you want it," growled the cook, and he gracelessly plunked a plate down on the kitchen's broad worktable. "According to that prig with the eyebrows, I might as well toss it to the hogs."

Willelmus paused and blinked, pie plate in hand. "I assure you, good man, your pies are excellent. My dear mother put the same touch of ginger in her apples, and your sugar crumble on top is perfect."

At that, he spun around in a whirl of his robes and marched for the door, leaving Cook to scratch his head with the befuddled beginnings of a smile.

Striding swiftly, Willelmus headed for his own small room, fully intending to shut himself away with his tea and pie and not speak to a soul until suppertime. Alas, that hope disintegrated at the rattling of a door latch. The chamberlain lengthened his stride to escape down the corridor, but too late. The door opened just behind him, and Lord Valthaur's wheezing voice spoke.

"Ah, Willelmus. Just the fellow I wanted."

The chamberlain allowed himself a full-face grimace of annoyance, before composing himself to perfect solemnity and turning around.

Pie plate and teapot carefully balanced, he inquired, "Yes, my lord? How may I be of service?"

Valthaur filled the doorway from frame to frame, his evening robe straining like a dustcover over a particularly well-stuffed chair. "Today's developments have quite distracted me. I nearly forgot I have a message that wants delivering. Would you be so kind?"

Years of practice prevented Willelmus' dismay from showing. "Certainly, my lord. If I may empty my hands?"

The subtle bit of irony he injected into those words was of course ignored, as Valthaur waved podgy fingers, the adamant stone of his ring winking dismissal. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll have it ready for you when you return."

Several minutes later, Willelmus cast his tea and pie a parting thought of regret, and headed out the door with Lord Valthaur's sealed note clutched in his hand.

"Black Cauldron," he murmured in distaste. "One would imagine the proprietor could think of a more welcoming name."

Swiftly the thin chamberlain made his way through the streets of Henneth Annûn, arriving shortly in the yard of the tavern in question. Immediately he realised the name was entirely appropriate. Even before he reached the door, a rank, burnt smell indicated a culinary disaster in progress. Upon opening the door, a further gust of stale beer and old body odour nearly bowled him off the porch.

However, Willelmus, chamberlain to the Lord Steward of Gondor, had never yet failed in his duty. With a nearly physical gathering of his will, he stepped into the cavernous gloom.

"Oh, dear," he whispered. "I have entered a den of trolls."

The few patrons at this hour matched the pong of the place, dour, hunched men who clutched their tankards as if guarding against theft by their fellows. Perhaps the beer was the only thing of value in this place, but Willelmus had no intentions of finding out.

Striding swiftly across the common room, he tried to ignore how his shoes kept sticking to the floor, and halted beside the taps. No one appeared to serve him. Frowning, he glanced about to see if perhaps the tavern keeper were one of those squatting like toads in the dimness. Apparently not. Someone in the room abruptly hacked a phlegmy cough, followed by a half-dozen more that sounded near to expelling a lung.

"Oh dear," Willelmus murmured, fingers tightening on Lord Valthaur's note.

Just as he drew breath to shout for service, a heavy step thudded beyond the doorway from which the reek of abused supper continued to emanate. He turned, and sucked in a gasp that nearly choked him. A perfectly hideous orc-face stared at him from the entrance, and nothing in that alien expression indicated whether the look was welcoming, or contemplation for a second course.

The creature's mouth opened, and a grating voice issued forth. "Can I help you?"

Well, that seemed polite enough. "I have a message for Master Drath," Willelmus replied. "Is he in?"

The orc blinked yellow eyes. "Wait here."

Off it shuffled, leaving Willelmus to breathe as shallowly as possible.

A quicker but no less heavy step brought his attention around, and Willelmus composed himself properly. The effort was lost on the slovenly, scowling man who appeared before him.

"Yeah?" he said in greeting.

"If you are Master Drath," Willelmus said primly, "I bear a message from Lord Valthaur. Are you he?"

"I am." Drath bent one elbow to scratch leisurely under the opposite armpit. "Let's have it."

With indecorous haste, Willelmus produced the sealed note and all but shoved it into the man's hand. If this were one of Lord Valthaur's clients, then surely the legal action he served must be perfectly heinous in nature. The chamberlain did not wait on Drath's grunt of thanks, if it could be called that, but turned and fled as swiftly as his dignity allowed.

Once outside, he almost collided with a second orc – this one the hugest of its kind he had ever seen. However, his near-shriek stopped in his throat as the ungainly creature back-pedalled way from him, gnarled hands held up in entreaty.

"I didn't touch you!" it cried. "Lugbac didn't touch nobody."

And that was more than enough madness for one day. Willelmus practiced deep-breathing all the way back to the Ranger headquarters, in hopes he might thus expel most of the evil humours he had ingested.

"Oh, my Lord Faramir," he groaned as he rushed along, "I pray you will never send me from your side, ever again. I am too old for this."

Behind him, Drath turned to stand beneath a smoke-stained lantern and tilted the letter to examine the embossed wax seal. Though lacking an address the missive bore a familiar symbol.

"Looks like another one." He shrugged, and turned to shout over his shoulder. "GROM! Get your lazy self out here. Need you to run an errand."

When the orc reappeared, Drath scowled. "You take this like before. And don't you be lazy about it, here? If I don't have your hide, he will."

The orc's gnarled shoulders clenched as he bowed his head. "All right."

He closed taloned fingers on the note, forming a strange contrast against the paper's pristine whiteness. Without meeting Drath's eyes, Grom turned and shuffled away.

xxx

TBC ...


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

_Afternoon/Evening  
__October 27th_

Lugbac leaned against the warm stones of the chimney and watched the clouds roiling across the peaks of the Ephel Dúath. He was tired, but it was a good tired. Not like it was Before.

Before he spent whole days marching and killing, or marching and digging. Because he was so big, all the bosses wanted him to dig. He liked it much better now. He got to do all sorts of jobs: pick apples, chop wood, plough fields, or hunt for squirrels. Sometimes he had to dig, but it was different. Digging that new privy with Corbat two days ago had not seemed like work.

Today, he grinned, he built something. It wasn't as nice as Russ' lodge that Nik had helped build; but it felt good to tear down those wobbly old sheds behind The Black Cauldron and put the boards back together to make something better. When they'd finished, there hadn't been any gaps in the walls, and he'd overlapped the boards on the roof just like Celebsul had once shown him when he helped fix the barn roof at The Burping Troll. That'd been something Corbat didn't know how to do, but Lorgarth said it was a right smart idea and given them a whole apple pie to share.

Lorgarth was a good boss. Told you exactly what he wanted you to do, and wasn't always shouting at you. If he wasn't one of Gubbitch's boys, Lugbac thought he would like to be one of Lorgarth's. Of course that would mean being in town all the time, and that might not be a good thing. It seemed like he was always forgetting one of the many rules the men had and getting in trouble.

Lugbac closed his eyes and grimaced at the memory of the time he had let the pigs loose in the marketplace. He'd only wanted to pet the baby pigs, but the old sow didn't like the idea. Everyone shouted at him, but he had been much more careful this time. He'd done everything Sev and Gubbitch had told him to do; so far he hadn't been in trouble at all.

The thought worried him; there'd never been a time he hadn't been in trouble. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to think on whatever it was he must be forgetting. Suddenly his eyes flew open; Lorgarth wanted him to ask someone something.

Lugbac groaned; he'd been feeling so happy about how things were going he hadn't repeated the message out loud five times like Sev taught him. Clouting himself in the head, he moaned, "Think, think, what was the message?"

The sun had almost vanished when Lugbac remembered Lorgarth wanted someone to come see him. But who?

Giving himself a clout on the other side of his head, Lugbac went through the people at the stable yard. None of them seemed right, though the harder he thought the more difficult it was to match those pasty white faces to their strange sounding names. He moaned again.

"Whatever is the matter with you, Lugbac? I thought a cat had been stepped on from the racket being made."

The little hobbit's voice caused the orc to open one enormous bloodshot eye and whisper, "I forgot."

Erin concealed her grin behind the apple she was biting, and asked, "Forgot what?"

"Who I was supposed to give a message to." Lugbac added, "I remember the message though."

"That's better than nothing." Settling herself upon an overturned bucket, Erin said, "Tell me what you were to say, and I'll help you figure out who you're supposed to tell."

Lugbac eagerly repeated the message that Lorgarth wished for someone to come see him at The Black Cauldron as soon as possible, and then told how he had tried to think of all the people at the stable and how none of them seemed to fit.

"Hmm …" replied the hobbit leaning toward the orc. "What about someone who's not here?"

A puzzled furrow ploughed itself across Lugbac's forehead. "But there's lots of people not here?"

"Not that are supposed to be," answered Erin. "For instance, Alfgard's men. Some of them are supposed to be here, but they're at the inn."

Lugbac nodded slowly, then shook it quickly. "No, it's not someone from here."

Erin frowned. "That certainly narrows it down. What about Anardil? Lorgarth might not know he's gone."

"Anardil?" Lugbac said evasively, trying to figure out which of the white-faced tarks was Anardil.

"Sev's man. The one with one arm."

"Oh," exclaimed Lugbac in sudden comprehension. Then he jumped up to shout happily, "He's the one! Lorgarth wants to see him! I'll go tell him."

Erin sighed. She hated to disappoint the ecstatic orc. "Uh, Lugbac. He's not here. You can't deliver the message."

"But Sev can't leave. The dark man is sick, and Sev doesn't leave sick people. Even mean ones."

Choosing to avoid an explanation of why Anardil was not present, while Sev was, Erin asked, "Why would you think Horus is mean?"

"He was one of those in the cave. One who hurt Nik and Sev. That was mean."

Amazed that the orc had remembered all of that from a time nearly nine months before, Erin said, "Yes, but he apologised, and Sev forgave him. Like Meri forgave you when you crawled in the chicken coop."

Lorgarth squirmed, then asked solemnly, "Did Nik forgive him too?"

Feeling as if she were sinking into a bog, the hobbit said quickly, "I'll find Cel to come help you figure it all out in a moment. First, tell me when and why Lorgarth wanted to meet with Anardil. If it's important, maybe we could ask Halbarad for help."

"He just said, 'Tell him to meet me. I have news for him.'"

Erin chewed at her lip. "I think we should let Halbarad and Celebsul know about this." Then she added firmly, "But not Sev. She's worried enough about Horus and about Lord Oliphaunt asking questions about Anardil."

Like a miser confronting gold, Lugbac pounced upon the nugget of special interest to him. "Lord Oliphaunt? Where? I like oliphaunts. I haven't seen one for a long time."

Again struggling to maintain her footing on that slippery slope of comprehension, Erin said, "Not a real oliphaunt. Just a man who looks like one."

Giving a disappointed shrug, Lugbac declared, "That would be nice too. Where can I see him?"

Going down for the third time, Erin abandoned the conversation. "First, let's go find Hal. Then we'll see about the oliphaunt."

Lugbac sighed, "'We'll see' always means 'no'."

"Not always. Now come along, before my head explodes."

Lugbac stared at the hobbit with wide eyes. "Can you do that?"

Resisting the urge to moan, Erin said, "It's a once in a lifetime occurrence and I'm saving it for another day."

With another disappointed sigh, Lugbac followed Erin to search out Halbarad.

xxx

Appetising aromas of the evening meal curled invisibly from the kitchen of The Whistling Dog. Customers already gathered at tables, most sipping their ale or wine so as not to overfill their bellies before the food arrived. Convivial conversation lent a hum to the atmosphere of cheerful anticipation - except for in one corner of the room.

"Leave it," Neal hissed at his brother, one muscular arm pinning Evan into his seat.

"But," the youth hissed back, "he'll get us all into trouble."

"No. Watch. Carrick or Bevin will sort him out."

At the other end of the table, Osric leant back, his chair teetering on two legs, and a grin smeared over his face. "I'll say it again - I ain't staying in this boring pub. I ain't under arrest. I've got important things to tend to. Soon as I finish this ale, I'm going to the Cauldron and none of you can stop me." His small eyes flickered across the company, alighting on Ham. "You and Tom should join me; otherwise I'll leave you out of my plans. There's plenty of others with the brains to recognise a good offer when they hear it. And I've promised to meet some of 'em."

"We gave an oath to stay here," Tom ventured quietly, face troubled.

Bringing the chair back to all fours, Osric hunched forward and scowled in disbelief. "Stay in the village, you bloody fool! Not in the same damn building. And if I've got to stay in this sorry excuse for a town, I'm going to do something useful with my time."

"We told Captain Tarannon we'd keep an eye on you," Bevin muttered darkly.

"So you did." Osric rocked his head from side-to-side while contemptuously adding, "Mummy dear."

Anger stained Bevin's cheeks, but Carrick spoke next, setting heavy fists on the table. "If you must go to that sty, at least wait till after dinner, then I'll go with you. But I won't eat the slops they serve over there."

Everyone winced at the sacrifice Carrick offered … except Osric. "Please yourself. I'll eat here if somebody pays the difference. Food's cheaper at the Cauldron."

Snorting in disgust, Bevin reached into his pocket then threw a few small coins across the table. "For Carrick's sake, not yours. At least the condemned nursemaid should eat a hearty meal."

Osric's lip curled into an amused sneer, and he scooped the coins off the edge of the table into his palm. "So, who's buying the drinks?"

Drying glasses at the bar, Sira listened to the conversation and wondered fancifully whether some orcs could disguise themselves as men.

xxx

Knowing the final moments of dinner preparation were not the time to be dragging an enormous orc through the kitchen and dining hall, Erin led Lugbac toward the men's barracks set aside for The Burping Troll males. Celebsul might be there, or someone who knew where to find Halbarad.

Shivering in the wind which set the paddock grasses whipping, Erin aimed a baleful eye at the sky. There'd be rain tomorrow for certain - a solid drenching rain, from the looks of the clouds piling up against the eastern mountains. Lugbac's gleeful chortle interrupted her gloomy thoughts.

"Look, Erin." An enormous dirty finger pointed toward the paddock ahead. "The horses are dancing."

The possibility of wet weather was forgotten while the little hobbit and the misshapen orc watched the horses leaping and frolicking as the spirit of the wind filled them.

A voice, thick with the rolling accent of Rohan, came from a hitherto unnoticed figure. Raberlon leant against one of the paddock posts, bow-legged, iron-grey hair held back with a braided band of horsehair, so still and part of the scenery that Erin had not noticed him. He spoke, however, in Rohirric, so the hobbit lass could only respond to the twinkle in his eyes.

"They're so happy," she replied, and joined the man at the rail and stretched her hand through the fence to stroke a velvet nose.

"Aye." Raberlon said something again in the words of Rohan then his wrinkled face creased in a laugh as the hobbit looked puzzled. "Thy language tangles my tongue, lass, give me a moment."

Erin nodded and waited while the man closed his sun-washed blue eyes and frowned in concentration. Then he said haltingly, "When it came time to make the creatures of the world, the Lord of the Valar spoke to the wind, 'I will that a creature proceed from thee.' Thus, the horse was born from the wind. They are only remembering how they began."

The unlikely trio, hobbit, orc and man, stood and watched the horses frolic a little longer.

Lugbac's deep voice repeated slowly, "If horses are born from the wind, would oliphaunts come from the mountains?"

Raberlon peered up at the orc. "Hard to know where something comes from."

"Some things are easy," the orc said. He pointed to the hobbit. "Erin comes from the Shire where it's green and people like to eat. You and Sev come from Rohan where the hills roll like your voices. Russ comes from the tall mountains where the snow stays all the year. Elves come from places where the stars fill their eyes."

Erin blinked, while Raberlon stared, then squinted at the ungainly creature. Such near-poetry of thought certainly was not what either expected.

"And where do you come from?" the man asked.

"Me?" Lugbac went still, and his face twisted with pain. "I don't remember much from Before. Only a three peaked mountain and the marching and digging. Gubbitch says someday I might. But I don't want to. I like it better now. I've got my own blanket, and Gubbitch said no one could take it from me. I traded a stone for it."

Raberlon watched as the golden-haired hobbit slipped her hand into the orc's hideous paw, a brief, kindly grasp as one might give to a troubled child. More than one thought the folk living at The Burping Troll bewitched or simply mad for championing the rights of the worst enemies Man had ever known. More than once he or one of the other hands found themselves staring down someone who spoke poorly of Mistress Sevilodorf. They allowed no one to show disrespect to a lady of the family to which they had sworn oaths of loyalty, though they might criticise her amongst themselves.

When the men learned Alfgard had agreed to house the Uruk-hai and the strange shape-shifter during the hearing, several of them spoke out. The stable master listened to their complaints impassively, and then said sternly that by order of Esiwmas, head of the family, all courtesy was to be shown to their guests. Those who could not live with such decisions were free to take the matter up with him.

A bit more grumbling followed, but all the Rohirrim in Henneth Annûn were here by choice. They had left the Deeping Vale to build something new, something that would erase the memories of the war and help both Gondor and Rohan recover; thus they were willing to at least give Esiwmas and Sevilodorf a chance to prove their support of these creatures was more than bewitchment or folly.

For the last three days, the men quietly observed the three orcs and the shape-shifter. The little Uruk's poulticing of Alfgard's best mare the first night proved a topic for many hours of debate. The older orc, Gubbitch, possessed an air of authority which bothered many; yet it also had impressed them with his ability to control the slow-thinking Lugbac's desire to 'help'. And while Lugbac's breaking of an anvil caused great consternation, the creature's obvious devotion to Mistress Sevilodorf almost balanced the scale. The consensus of the men thus far was that these orcs, at least, appeared to want peace and were willing to abide by the rules of men.

"Aye," Raberlon responded to the orc's comments. "I heard about the stone. Mistress Sevil tells the story of it whenever she wears her bracelet."

"Sev tells stories about me?" Lugbac repeated with pleasure and a sharp-tooth grin which caused the old man to draw back with a shudder.

"Aye, she does." Raberlon pointed behind the orc. "Your boss is wanting you."

Erin leaned over to see around Lugbac's thigh and exclaimed, "Oh good, Hal's with Gubbitch. Let's go tell them your message, Lugbac; then it'll be dinner time." Looking up at the wizened face of the ancient Raberlon, she added, "Thank you, sir, for talking to us. Most of the men act like we're invisible."

Laugh lines appeared at the corners of Raberlon's eyes. "That'll change, lass, then they'll talk your leg off."

Lugbac's brows drew together, but before he could say anything, Erin pulled at his hand and replied hastily, "Thank you again. Come on."

xxx

Halbarad's frown upon hearing Lugbac's message set the lumbering orc to begin a howling protest that he had been good and none of it was his fault.

"Shut it, tha big lummox." Gubbitch thumped the big orc soundly in the shoulder. "We know it ain't nowt to do with thee." Cocking his thumb toward the main house, the orc chieftain said, "Him tha's looking for's a bit worn out."

"Is Anardil back then?" Erin asked. "He certainly would be worn out."

"Yes," replied Halbarad. "A long ride made even longer by a long walk due to a cast off shoe; but the effort was worth it; the hearing has been postponed and a new judge appointed."

"Good." Erin nodded emphatically and frowned as she planted one fist on her hip. "I will never understand how those men could sit there and tell such stories to Lord Valthaur. When I spoke at the hearing in Minas Tirith, he made me feel that he could see right inside me and would know if I were telling the truth or not. Not, of course, that I would lie, but you know what I mean."

The Ranger Captain nodded. "Lord Valthaur's astuteness is legendary."

"Aye, fat man's got a way of exposing thy innards," Gubbitch said. "Sees a body's wits turn, that one does. Looked me reet in eyes, every time. Not like most men. Aye." He nodded his scarred head. "Ah'd not want to defend a lie wi' likes of him starin' me in peepers."

Erin snorted. "Then I wonder where his attention was, when that Osric was telling his lies. Why -."

Her rant abruptly halted to the clanging of the dinner bell, and she gathered herself immediately.

"Well, then, that's dinner. Come, Lugbac, we have to tidy you up so you don't dribble grime in your supper. Follow me."

As the odd pairing of wee round hobbit and hulking, lumbering orc departed, Gubbitch squinted up at Halbarad.

"Reckon tha wants news of Lorgarth, then. Ah eat out back, anyroad – might as well go to Black Cauldron mesen, save thee missin' supper."

Frowning, Halbarad cast a wistful glance towards the house. "Unfortunately, Gubbitch, I think I had better go if Anardil is too weary. I imagine Lorgarth just wants to report that Osric is over there, again. Go eat with your lads, I'll be along later."

"Suit thesen," Gubbitch replied, and ambled off toward the promise of a good meal.

Sighing, Halbarad turned his steps towards the street, and the way to The Black Cauldron.

xxx

"Captain, to what do we owe the honour?"

The hearty, if rather sarcastic, greeting reinforced Hal's belief that Osric was an ass. Unfortunately, it also drew the eye of every one of The Black Cauldron's less than savoury patrons and made impossible any private meeting with Lorgarth the orc.

Eyeing the leering man and his ferret-faced tablemates with thinly veiled disdain, Halbarad replied, "Just taking a turn about the town, Osric. Introduce me to your friends."

"Why, Cap'n, I thought your assignment was a bit further to the north." Leaning conspiratorially toward the man on his right, Osric confided, "Captain Halbarad's in charge o' that madhouse called The Burping Troll." As the men nodded with understanding, he waved a hand from one to the other. "Sarmith and Baran, merchants from Cair Andros."

The man identified as Sarmith drew back and fixed Halbarad with a bleary-eyed stare, clearly well into his cups. "Come to town with the carnival, did you, sir? Right fine entertainment so far. Pity the Swerting's caused a delay; I might have to miss the ending."

"Right pity," Baran said with a belch. "We do love a good hanging."

"I'm afraid you gentlemen have been misinformed," Halbarad replied coolly. "The hearing is only to decide if a trial is called for. There will be no sentencing at this time, and most certainly no hangings."

"If'n you say so, Cap'n," Sarmith said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "But after listening to the tale Osric told the other day, ain't many left believing that monster deserves less."

Smothering another belch, Baran thumped the table with his fist. "Hangin's too good for the sorry lout. Need to find somethin' a bit more painful."

"I'm certain his lordship would be most delighted to hear your suggestions," Hal said calmly. "Though as I said, there will be no sentencing at this hearing. Now, if you will excuse me."

A quick scan of the room revealed both the fact that Osric was not wholly unsupervised, and neither was Lorgarth. While making his way to the dimly lit corner where Carrick sat sourly sipping a mug of beer, Hal caught the orc's eyes and nodded that he understood the problem. Whatever intelligence Lorgarth had for Hal or Anardil, they would have to find a subtler means of sharing it.

After drowning half a pint with Carrick and listening to a rather dull report on Osric's attempts to hire Baran and Smarith to take the places of Ham and Tom as his "partners" in business, Hal tossed a handful of coppers on the table and prepared to leave.

"Would you like another, sir?" a guttural voice said, and the thick-nailed fingers of an orc's hand reached out to take Hal's tankard.

"No, I think I've had enough for tonight. Unless you can suggest something else."

Lorgarth's eyes flickered toward the bearded Carrick, then back toward the bar where the owner, Drath, stood drawing pints and glancing repetitively toward their corner.

Finally, the orc shrugged and began wiping the table with a dirty rag while he muttered, "I was expecting that fellow who was looking for the snake last spring."

Catching on to the subterfuge immediately, Halbarad gathered his wits to play along. "He's been away for a bit. But I should see him soon. Did you have a message for him?"

"The snake's back. I think he came in with the lad Drath took on, that Odbut, or maybe the new one that turned up yesterday."

Carrick blinked and looked from the Ranger to the orc. "A snake's a rather dangerous pet."

Lorgarth gave a toothy grin, as he swiped the table in a vigorous pass. "I think it's the other way around, but you're right in saying a snake's a dangerous thing."

Halbarad lowered his voice to ask, "And do you think this new lad could lead us to the snake?"

"He might." Lorgarth folded the cloth and pretended to scrub at an imaginary spot. "Though he's more careful than I first thought - sneaking around at night. If you watch, you might catch him at it."

"Any lead is better than the ones we've been tracking. Thank you for the information, Lorgarth."

"T'aint everything." The orc gathered Carrick's now-empty tankard and cast Halbarad a keen look. "The new lad got a message a few hours ago. Delivered by a rather strange bird. A Gondorian peacock."

Halbarad blinked. "Indeed. One seldom sees that particular bird outside the walls of the White City."

"I can believe that," Lorgarth chuckled, sharp teeth glinting briefly beyond dark lips. "It didn't quite fit in here. Think it's used to more lordly surroundings, if you know what I mean."

Willelmus, then; with Khint in custody, he remained the only other possibility as a messenger for anyone lordly. Hal cast a glance about the tavern, at a drunk sprawled unconscious beneath a table, and a puddle of something he did not care to think of beneath another. The poor chamberlain must still be shuddering.

"A Gondorian peacock?" Carrick mumbled. "'Tis a wonder no one plucked its fine feathers. There's some in here would stoop to taking the gold from their mother's teeth."

"Yes, he was most fortunate," replied Hal to Carrick's confusion. "But such birds often have powerful friends." Seeing that Lorgarth had told all he could at the moment, the Ranger exclaimed rather more loudly than was necessary, "No, I'll pass on that mutton stew."

Lorgarth gave the two men a wink, then backed away apologising for disturbing them.

"Snakes and peacocks," murmured Carrick with a slow shake of his head. "Whatever is the world coming to?"

Hal stood and said, "Whatever honest men like yourself make of it, Master Carrick."

Carrick nodded and watched as the Ranger slipped from the room. For a few minutes, the Captain's words bolstered his spirits. But then a drunken laugh resounded from the table occupied by Osric and his new friends. Carrick plunged once more into gloomy thoughts and signalled the bar maid for another beer.

xxx

Unable to stand against the combined forces of Celebsul, Horus and Darien, Sev found herself evicted from the sickroom after dinner with instructions not to return until morning.

"And morning, madam, means no earlier than two hours after sunrise," the Silverbrook lord stated, before closing the door firmly in her face.

Only the fact that the haunted look which had marred his countenance for the past two days had been replaced by an almost boyish merriment kept Sev from pounding on the wood and demanding re-admittance; that and the image of Anardil still asleep in a room at the end of the hall.

Then there was the small matter of her hobbit guardian.

"Come, Sevi. Horus is looking much better. It's amazing how quickly someone can recover from a fever." Erin herded her friend toward the room they shared. "Besides, you need to take some time for yourself. I don't think you slept more than ten minutes last night. And I know you haven't sat down at the table and eaten a decent meal since Horus became ill."

The hobbit's gentle scolding continued as she bustled about their room. Somehow, within a matter of minutes, Sev found herself wrapped in a comfortable robe with soft slippers upon her feet, while the hobbit handed her favourite mug filled with hot chamomile tea.

"You sit right there while I fetch more warm water for you to wash," Erin admonished with a shake of her finger.

"Yes, ma'am," Sev replied dutifully.

"I'll bring back a tray of nibbles too. I don't know how you Big People manage on so little food."

Sev waited until the hobbit's footsteps faded, then set the tea on the floor and stood. If she sat for too long, she would indeed go to sleep and there were still things that needed doing this evening. Crossing to the bed, she noted the soft embroidered towel Erin had brought from home and the bar of soap wrapped in a clean handkerchief. Sev picked up the soap. Honeysuckle, just as she had expected.

Moments later, Erin bustled back in the door. "Sevi, I brought you some…"

The hobbit stopped speaking and settled the basket of pastries on the chair. Setting the pitcher of water in the basin, Erin gathered up the shawl from the back of the chair and tiptoed to the bed. Gently, she draped the garment over the slumbering figure clutching a bar of honeysuckle soap. Without a sound, for hobbits are known for their ability to move silently, she collected the items she would need for the evening and blew out the candle.

xxx

"Justice."

Russ rumbled the word quietly, tasting its sound along with the last of his evening pipe. As he looked up at the night sky, he saw pinpoints of stars glittering between long, dark swaths of clouds. Weariness tugged at his very bones, the urge to sleep lying heavy as a blanket of winter snow, yet his mind would not rest. Did he believe justice would be served here? Perhaps he did. Nik did. Halbarad did. Celebsul did. The fickle justice of men - and to what purpose?

So that Nik could enjoy the freedom any other being would have been born with the right to own. Yet Nik had been born a slave and lived as a slave, until the fall of Orthanc. Foul chance, indeed, that the freedom Russ tried to offer the little Uruk-hai had got tied up in the ill-guided tangles of Men. Now people kept trying to convince him that all the words, decrees, and piles of paper were needed to give Nik what the destruction of the Dark Lord should have granted him - the right to walk upright and free.

A memory leaked into Russ' awareness, and his massive shoulders rose and shuddered. He recalled his first instinct upon pulling the bedraggled, half-drowned Uruk from a river - throw it back. But mercy for all living things proved a far stronger urge, and at that time, Nik had seemed a pitiful, helpless creature. The days and weeks following Russ' acceptance of the orc as one of his helpers demonstrated that Nik was neither pitiful nor helpless - he possessed keen intelligence and amazing strength for such a small person. That intelligence and strength were the reasons why Nik had survived death, and also why he now answered to justice.

What had Nik done? He had fought for his life, and for the life of an innocent woman. The world seemed mad, indeed, when the innocent had to prove their blamelessness beyond question, while the guilty and duplicitous wore the appearance of truth. Those lying witnesses were beneath contempt, while Nik's nobility shone bright - forming the beacon that led Uruk and Beorning into this swarm of Justice. How many months had Russ nibbled uselessly at that decision, turning it over and over, a toothless squirrel with an acorn?

Yet Nik had cracked the greater nut. 'It's for Mistress Sev and Horus and Evan and everybody who speaks for me.' The heart in that stunted, unprepossessing body housed more honour than half the mansions of Gondor.

Something stirred in the undergrowth, bringing Russ' thoughts back to the here and now. He sniffed and located the black-and-white striped face and sparkling dark eyes of a badger.

"Hello, Brother Brock," said the Beorning, before tipping his head into a listening posture.

The badger emitted a staccato grunting and clicked his teeth.

"Yes, I have eaten well," Russ said. "And what do you here?"

The badger braced wide-set legs and growled, which slid into a brief churring sound, then another clack of sharp teeth.

"Aye," Russ answered whatever reply he received. "You are a brave leader. Here lie rich pickings of fallen apples for your family. But grave danger also lies in the orchards of Men."

However, nothing would deter the badger from risking his life to fatten his colony for the bitter season to come. Shuffling quietly into the safety of the hedge, the creature grunted his farewell.

"Goodbye, Brother Brock. May fortune go with you, and winter lie gentle over your sett."

Russ returned to his pondering. Men would never truly know the bravery and sacrifice of the animals that shared their world. But Nik was a person who could speak his honour in words Men understood - if only they would listen. It was so hard for Russ to stand aside and let his friend risk his life on the fragile chance that truth might prevail. How much easier to hide him away in safety and silence - not that Nik would agree to that.

No, the right thing was not always easy. But perhaps even Justice would at last bear fruit.

A man could hope, couldn't he? Yes, a man could always hope.

Russ puffed a little more, then tapped out his pipe and went inside for bed.

xxx

"Does the end justify the means, Anardil?"

At the quiet question from the darkness, he sighed. He had known the lines drawn deep upon his lady's face were not due merely to physical weariness. He would have done better to refuse the hobbit's offer to switch bedchambers, thus delaying this particular conversation for perhaps a day or two. By then, a true resolution to the situation would have been reached and with it a better understanding of the worth of their actions.

"_Meleth nín_," he began then stopped as she stiffened.

"Don't use that patient tone on me. I am no child to be placated with gentle words. I have done many things in my life of which I am ashamed, but until now I never attempted to weave my own truth."

"I would not dream of placating you, Sev; but do not be too harsh upon yourself."

"Too harsh," Sev exclaimed though clenched teeth, and twisted in his embrace to face him. "I might have killed Horus. His reaction to the fever-inducing herbs was far more extreme than I expected."

His reply breathed warmly against her face. "And if you had not 'woven' this illness? Would not the hearing have continued with Khint and Margul arranging the outcome as they preferred?"

"How does it make us right if in order to defeat those who flout the law, we do so ourselves?"

"Because Sevi, sometimes the end does justify the means." Quiet steel underlay his gentle tone. "Did you seek to stop the proceedings entirely, or delay them only to ensure true justice was done?"

"You're twisting things. Standing before the court and telling lies cannot be right."

"It is when you know, as we did, the court is unfair. Be strictly honest, Sev, what lies did you tell?" Anardil shifted his head on the pillow to better observe the shadowed planes of her face. "Horus was indeed ill. You speculated as to the cause of his illness, but made no definite statements. Nor did you allow Master Banazîr to do so. You sidestepped the truth and allowed others to draw what conclusions they desired."

"Not when Lord Valthaur asked where you were." Sev hugged her folded arms to her breast, an unthinking bulwark against her fears, and he shifted his arm warmly around her. "I expected him to assume like all the others that you had gone off on a trading venture; or since he knew your work for the King, to think that you were called away by duty. But when he made that comment about the roads being dangerous and asked where you were, I didn't know what to say. So I lied and told him I didn't know."

Anardil could not keep the laughter from his voice. "If that is the extent of your falsehoods, you are a petty criminal at best."

"Don't laugh at me, you … calculating observer." Sev slapped at his chest. "I am not used to covering the truth in such a fashion."

"No, when you wish to hide the truth, you refuse to speak." Again he felt her stiffen, but this time he continued, "The real question you must ask yourself is would you do it all again?"

She sagged against him and only the sound of their breathing filled the night. Then in a resigned tone, she said, "Aye, that is the heart of the matter. Yes, given the choices I had, I would do the same again. Forgive my foolishness, Anardil."

He tucked strands of hair behind her ear and dropped a kiss upon her forehead. "There is nothing to forgive, Sevi. I should not have placed such a burden upon you."

"If not me, who else? It is what I asked of you, to allow me to walk the paths you walk. " She drew a quick, strengthening breath and looked into his eyes, shadowed but so near. "I pray you will not cease doing so because of my faintheartedness. I will strive to be a more diligent student and learn the lesson you attempt to teach."

Silently, Anardil considered whether he did right in teaching such lessons. If he did so only because of his desire to have Sev by his side, he was doing her a great disservice. For as he knew, once one became aware of the many forms human treachery assumed, one could never again look at people without suspicion. But if she remained determined in her resolve to walk the shadowy roads he trod in the King's service, such lessons were essential for her survival.

"And I will learn yours," he said, deliberately setting aside the propriety of instructing her in the arts of subterfuge.

"Mine? What lessons do I have to teach?"

"To look beyond the darkness and shadows." He traced the line of her jaw, then punctuating each word with a kiss, he added, "To dream once more with the promise of laughter and love."

"_Loof_," Sev responded against his lips. "Where do you think I learned them?"

Thus peace came to the household and Ithilien slept.

xxx

As night drew its starry cloak over the Ephel Dúath, a stream tumbled whitely amongst jumbled boulders and the jackstraw tangle of standing and fallen trees. Here the earth had moved in the final throes of Mount Doom, sending great chunks of mountain falling into the forest below. Few ventured into this wilderness of trees and stone, but close by the stream, concealed from all but the most discerning eye, a small, smokeless campfire winked in the mouth of a hidden cave. Beside the fire crouched a solitary figure.

The snapping branch, which heralded Grom's approach from the darkness, would have startled a lesser man. But Margul placidly continued stirring the stew pot hanging over his small fire until the orc dropped down beside him.

Even then, he did no more than glance up and say, "I trust you fulfilled your errand."

Grom reached into the pouch hanging from his belt and drew out a small onion and a packet wrapped in tattered cloth. Settling the packet on the ground, the orc scrubbed away the onion's papery skin before offering it to his master.

Ignoring the packet, Margul accepted the onion and drew his silver handled knife. Slivers of pale onion sank into the depths of the thick beef stew, and Grom's stomach rumbled.

When half the onion had disappeared into the pot, silvery green eyes lifted to meet the orc's yellow-tinged orbs. Without a word, Margul tossed the remaining onion into the fire and wiped his knife clean. The blade glinted briefly in the firelight as it pointed toward the packet.

Nostrils twitching at the sharp scent of burning onion, Grom answered the unspoken question. "Some fancy man brought it. It's got the signal mark on the outside, but he weren't the one you've been meeting."

"Were you followed?"

"Nar, told Lorgarth the master had an errand for me." Grom sneered. "Got no business being a boss; he ain't no better than a snaga. Fetching and carrying for that tark scum, Drath."

"Master Drath." the man said quietly, tapping his blade upon his knee. "You will address even the tark scum properly."

Grom shrank back and mumbled, "Master Drath."

"Better. And remember, we must be extremely vigilant until I find out what happened to Odbut and the farm boy. I suspect one or the other may have alerted the authorities to my presence in the area. There have been too many Rangers wandering in the woods for my liking."

Slipping his knife into its sheath, Margul gave the stew another careful stir before picking up the message.

While his master read, Grom watched the stew bubble. His stomach rumbled again. Because of the fancy man and his message, that stupid git, Corbat, had drained the orcs' pot before Grom had a chance to take his full share. Now he'd never make it back in time for a portion of the leavings after the tavern closed.

Occupied with thoughts of stew, Grom failed to note the slow hardening of his master's features. However, with the brittle crumpling of the message by a tight fist, the orc hunched his shoulders and went still as a rabbit at the shadow of a hawk.

"Is this all there was?"

The icy precision of the words swept away all thought of stew.

Grom strove to keep his voice low and respectful. "Aye, sir, there weren't no more."

"Describe the man."

Swallowing hard, the orc began a stammering description of the messenger. When he described Willelmus' beak-like nose and haughty expression, Margul held up a finger to halt the scattered words.

Mid-breath, the orc's voice died. Long silent moments passed. Bit by bit the murmur of the nearby stream faded and the wind ceased to whisper in the forest, until the only sound remaining was the bubbling of the stew. The very smell of which now set Grom's stomach roiling with nausea.

Margul's knuckles went white as he again squeezed the paper within his fist. He began to speak softly. So softly, Grom could make out nothing but the fury behind the words. Then the man went still, and the orc crouched low in a pitiful attempt to avoid the unleashing of his master's rage.

But instead, Margul gave a bark of laughter and began to smooth the crumpled paper. He folded it carefully and tucked the page inside his stained coat. Taking up his spoon, he leaned over to stir the stew once again.

"So the muck has spilt close to the source this time," Margul spoke in quiet riddles, "and he wants no spots on his robes - wishes me to wipe the mess away. I wonder what ensues if the mud sticks."

Tipping his head, he said to the cringing orc. "If he thinks to break his promises, to cut his ties and leave me with nothing, or throw me to the wolves …"

Stopping mid-sentence, Margul paused and took a long breath.

"Nevertheless, I will do his bidding. That suits my own purposes well enough for the time being. There are those who have thwarted me too often. But they all underestimate my resources. And that," pale eyes glinted in the fire's glow, "is an error I simply cannot tolerate. After all, my very reputation is at stake."

Then the man smiled.

And the orc dared to smile back, for he recognised that look. It was the smile that fulfilled the promises the master had made to the servant. Promises of flesh, sweet and tender; of blood, hot and thick; and of revenge, terrible and swift. Yes, soon Grom would get to hunt, for his master's will and for his own pleasure.

xxx

TBC ...


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

_October 28_

The next day dawned grey and dreary, and a freshening breeze brought the scent of rain. As the morning grew older, the lowering sky swallowed the craggy tops of the Ephel Dúath. Drawing her shawl over her head, Sira cast an aggrieved look up at the blanket of rain-heavy clouds. Her mind distracted with worry that a downpour would prevent her from meeting her beau later, she failed to notice the man standing in the doorway across from the apothecary's shop.

His eyes, however, followed her down the lane. A rather unremarkable action; after all, Sira was an attractive young woman and more than one pair of male eyes noticed her trim ankles and swaying hips. Except, no one getting a close look at the expression hidden beneath the multicoloured scarf the man wore wrapped across the lower portion of his face could mistake it for anything other than loathing. As the barmaid hurried toward the marketplace to complete her errands, the man swathed the edges of his finely woven cloak more tightly about him and strolled purposefully across to the apothecary's door.

A bell hanging about the knob jingled musically when the man entered, yet other than the meowing of a large grey cat stretched across one shelf, no inhabitant of the shop responded. The man threw back his hood and unwound his scarf to reveal a head of thick wavy hair and a smoothly trimmed beard of steel grey, though his thin muscular body and finely featured face did not appear to carry sufficient years to match this colouring. Likewise, his poised and princely bearing suggested he would look well in clothing even finer than the tasteful quality he wore now.

The cat watched unblinkingly as the man studied the shelves lining the walls. Jars and bottles of ointments, lotions and elixirs stood neatly arranged and dust free, while on the lower levels, baskets and crates gave off the musty smell of stored herbs. Additional bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling in various stages of preservation. In the alcove, beneath the steps leading up to what were most certainly the living quarters of the apothecary and his assistant, a sturdy table bore the only sign of disarray: an abandoned pestle with its mortar's bowl half filled with a sticky green paste. From the stairwell came a soft murmur of voices punctuated with the occasional thump of wood upon wood.

Satisfied as to the location of the shop's occupants, the visitor took advantage of their absence to assure himself that the door to the left of the stairs opened upon a small cellar, and the one to the rear of the shop opened only onto a narrow storeroom with slits of windows covered by heavy shutters. Ignoring the cat's steady gaze, the man focused his attention on the thick bound ledger lying open upon a tall desk near the front door. Locating the final entry, he took particular note of the purchases made by the maid who had only just exited the shop. After a pause to listen once more to the sounds overhead, he turned the page back to study the entries from the previous day. With a nod and a satisfied smile, he tapped one entry with a single elegant finger.

Aligning the ledger with the edge of the desk, he returned to the door and gave the bell several sharp jerks. A voice from above called, "Coming," and he heard the soft thud of feet upon the stairs.

"Yes, sir, how may I assist you?" In the face of the man's quiet elegance, Eberle wiped unsuccessfully at the stains upon his apron.

"Is your master about?" inquired the stranger with a pleasant smile. He hooked his thumbs in his belt, the pale light gleaming on an ornate pewter buckle which Eberle silently admired.

"I'm sorry, sir. He is unavailable today." Then for no reason he could name, the apprentice found himself smiling back and adding, "The damp has made his arthritis particularly painful today."

"I am most sorry to hear that. I had hoped to speak with him on a rather delicate matter." The man gave a small frown then looked up thoughtfully. "Perhaps you will be able to assist me?"

Beneath the steady silvery-green regard, Eberle straightened his thin shoulders and replied with a confidence that would have astonished his master. "Of course, sir."

"Good man." The nod of approval brought a pleased expression to the apprentice's thin face. "But first, forgive my curiosity, would you tell me what you are mixing together? I recognize the mullein, but…"

In response to the man's knowledgeable questions, Eberle gave a detailed description of the poultice he was preparing. Reacting to the attentive interest, the gawky, normally tongue-tied apprentice continued with an accounting of the circumstances requiring such treatment. At mention that the patient was Haradrim, Eberle was troubled to see his audience of one look dismayed.

"My word, I do hope it is not some strange Southron fever," his listener exclaimed.

Eberle paused and glanced up the stairs before replying, "Master Banazîr has assured Lord Valthaur that such is not the case."

The stranger pressed long fingers to his chest. "My dear man, having travelled extensively in Harondor, I know too well the dangers of such virulent fevers. What assurance can your master give that the Haradrim will not bring a plague upon us?"

Distressed at having caused such a reaction, Eberle attempted to reassure. "I know not, sir, but the gentleman is recovering and no one else has taken ill."

"Recovering? So quickly?"

"Yes, sir." Eager to regain this smooth man's trust, Eberle rushed on. "Mistress Sevilodorf stopped here not half an hour ago on her way to the marketplace with word of the patient's improvement. My master would have gone to examine Master Horus himself, but he is in too much pain today to move further than his chair by the fire."

At the sound of the Rohirrim healer's name, the silvery gaze sharpened; and a chill curdled Eberle's stomach. Who was this man? Why was he asking so many questions?

Suddenly aware of the way his tongue had wagged about matters that should have remained private, the apprentice asked, "What was the problem you wished to see my master regarding?"

Recognizing Eberle's retreat, the stranger leaned forward inviting his confidence once more and said softly, "'Tis most embarrassing, but I require a liniment. One suitable for the most sensitive areas."

Blushing furiously, the apprentice hastened to one of the shelves and stammered, "We … ha-have j- just the th-thing, sir. Most soothing, I as-sh- sh-sure you."

xxx

The bottle of liniment landed in the alley with a soft clink as Margul wrapped the knitted scarf once more about his throat and lower face. Though not up to his preferred level of style and comfort, these garments were a decided improvement over those provided by the missing Odbut, and gave him the appearance of conservative prosperity. Besides, their previous owner no longer had any need of them.

Not being the first or third Saturday, the Henneth Annûn marketplace looked a dreary place. Only those merchants maintaining regular stalls or shops about the square had bothered to set out wares beneath the forbidding clouds; and the gap-toothed hawker of hot meat pies alone appeared to be in the way of making a profit for the day. Accepting his own purchase with a silent nod, Margul positioned himself beneath the canopy of an empty stall to watch and listen. To a passer-by, he would seem only a peaceful gentleman enjoying a bit of lunch out of the weather.

The information gleaned from the apothecary's apprentice proved correct. There before the dressmaker's shop stood two with whom he most desired to converse. Unfortunately, such discourse would be frowned upon by the pair of muscular young men flanking the Rohirrim healer. Further objections could be expected from the brightly garbed youth engaged in heated discussion with the red-haired barmaid. Deliberately letting his seemingly inattentive gaze wander elsewhere, Margul nonetheless listened keenly.

"Cameroth is my employer, not my owner, Jasimir," Sira declared with a sharp stamp of her foot.

Crossing his arms and glaring, the youth retorted, "I'd be quite happy to go back to Dad and tell him you refused to come along, but Captain Tarannon was most upset to hear you were wandering about without an escort. Told Dad that as your closest kinsman, he was responsible for you. Personally, I think it would serve you right if Margul did find you."

Any fear Sira felt upon hearing the name was brief for she drew herself up and said with the barest hint of a quiver in her voice, "What possible trouble could I find here in the marketplace? Sevilodorf is here."

"She had the sense not to come alone." Jasimir gestured to Neal and Evan, and the swords hanging at their sides.

Exchanging glances, the brothers politely refrained from relating the rather strident conversation which had taken place between Sevilodorf and Lord Darien before she was allowed to leave the stable yard.

Eyes snapping with indignation, the barmaid drew breath to argue the point further; but Sevilodorf stepped between the combatants. "For once, I agree with the Captain, Sira. Tarannon's men, along with Halbarad and Anardil are searching for the culprit, but until he's found we all must take precautions we don't like." Pointing at Neal and Evan, she added, "I've been saddled with two guards."

Evan snorted and dared to mutter, "Only because Anardil left strict orders."

Sev resisted the urge to reprimand the brash young man and offered an alternative plan regarding the kid gloves that Alfgard had found for her. "Is there any time this afternoon when we could meet? It would really be best if I checked the fit of the gloves. Too tight would be as bad as too loose. I am very sorry that I did not bring them with me, but my mind has been focused on Horus' illness. Or might you go back with me to the stable yard and try them on there?"

Sira frowned as Jasimir removed his bright blue hat and shook his head. "My father was most insistent that I walk her back immediately."

With another stamp of her foot, the barmaid exclaimed, "I'm not foolish enough to go walking the back lanes without a chaperone, but I certainly don't need one in the middle of the village."

From his position at Sevilodorf's side, Neal said, "You do until this Margul is found. Captain Tarannon and your kinsmen are only concerned for your safety."

Laying a hand on the girl's arm, Sev said, "I know it's hard to accept the restrictions, but it is only for a short time."

"Oh, very well," Sira replied. "I am going walking with my gentleman friend this afternoon by the smith's. He will be collecting some wagon hardware for the garrison. I could meet you on the bridge."

Jasimir rolled his eyes. Sira's constantly changing procession of male admirers was something he took frequent amusement in. "It will be pouring rain by this afternoon. The two of you won't be walking anywhere."

"To get away from you, I'd walk to Minas Tirith in a blizzard," retorted Sira.

Frowning Jasimir into silence, Sev said, "Be certain you have someone walk you to the bridge, Sira. About four o'clock?"

Sira nodded, then jerked her elbow from Jasimir's grasp and flounced away. With a beleaguered sigh, the young man followed her.

"You will be certain to have someone walk you to the bridge as well?" Neal asked Sevilodorf.

"And just how do you think I'd get away without having someone trail after me? I count myself lucky that Warg did not make the trip with us or Anardil would set her to dogging my every step."

"So we are an improvement?" questioned Evan.

"Decidedly," Sev replied firmly. "You two can carry things. Warg usually just gnaws on everything. Come along, boys, I have several more errands to run."

Chewing the last bit of crust carefully, the thin man watched as the woman and her youthful guards departed. By this afternoon, Grom would have completed his latest errand, and arrangements could be made to meet with Mistress Sevilodorf and the delectable Sira. It was past time for the loose ends to be tied.

xxx

The first drizzling advance of the storm made itself felt not long after noon, and the streets of Henneth Annûn grew quiet and still. Were it not for the drifting of smoke from chimney tops, one might almost assume the entire village slept. Only the distant clang of the blacksmith shop revealed any signs of industry on a day turned grey and cheerless.

Beyond the village edge, beyond the nearby fields that bent in tussocks of yellow straw or in stubbled rows stripped of their harvest, two lean figures walked in soft-footed silence. The greys and browns of their clothing blended with the barren trees and the last rustling leaves of autumn. Soon a twittering birdcall sang from a grove ahead, and was repeated twice more.

Halbarad touched Anardil's sleeve and pointed, and the two of them turned that way. Moments later Captain Tarannon's tall form separated from the trees. He shook his head to their inquiring glances.

"No sign," he said quietly, as the three met and halted. "If Margul has been lurking around here, my lads have been unable to find a trace." He grimaced and added, "Though between Farmer Tom's cows coming in for milking, Farmer Will's escaped pigs on the road, and old Sam ploughing his peas under, a regiment of Haradrim could have tromped through here, and we'd be none the wiser."

Halbarad nodded ruefully. "Aye, this close to settlements and with so many strangers in town for the novelty of the hearing, there are simply too many tracks and signs to sort out a single man. If Margul is to be found, it must be further out."

"So I am thinking," Tarannon replied, casting a glance back into the shadowed forest. "Let us hope he continues to keep his distance, too, since Sira's sighting."

"A hope," Anardil said, "that we dare not cling to."

"Anything from Drath at The Black Cauldron?"

With a sour face, Halbarad replied, "Other than a dissertation on his business woes, and how nobody appreciates what he must endure, no. He claims that orc, Grom, disappeared during the night and he has no idea where he went."

"And the message Lorgarth mentioned?"

"He flatly denies receiving one. Claims Lorgarth is mistaken. And before you ask, no, I haven't managed to locate anyone who can substantiate Lorgarth's story of Willelmus becoming a delivery boy."

"And before _you_ ask," Tarannon's repetition of Anardil's phrase earned him a pair of grins, "I have been equally unsuccessful at interviewing Willelmus. He's yet to leave his room today. Given the fact that he is Lord Faramir's steward, I'm leery of actually demanding he present himself for questioning. My authority does not reach quite that high."

As one, the three men exchanged troubled looks and sighed.

"At least Lord Goldur is on his way," said Hal. "The sooner the hearing is under his auspices, the better I'll feel."

"Aye," agreed Anardil. "We all want this finished."

"Come." Tarannon tilted his head towards the forest. "We'll cast further out. Perhaps we and the lads will find something before the rain sets in."

"Confound the rain." Anardil glanced sourly at the lowering sky. "At least Sev and our folk are snug indoors." Casting a lopsided grin he added, "I believe Erin has planned some hobbity parlour games to keep everyone's moods from growing too bleak."

Together the three searchers disappeared into the whispering wood.

xxx

Willelmus, chamberlain to Lord Faramir, was not happy. In fact, one could describe him as disgruntled. Here he sat in a drafty little room so unlike his own comfortable cell at Emyn Arnen, and now even the man he had ostensibly been sent to serve had no further use for him. Not that Lord Valthaur ever made him feel terribly useful. That priggish fop, Khint, had long since bowed and scraped a solitary place for himself at his master's heel, leaving Willelmus' organisational skills unrewarded and unappreciated.

Perched on the edge of his bed, the thin chamberlain sighed, and interrupted himself with a sudden cough. Wincing, he pressed a hand to his breast.

"Oh dear. I think I am getting a sniffle."

Patting himself consolingly, he glanced about the room. Only four books lay on his bedside table, all he had been able to find of merit in this wretched place. How he missed Lord Faramir's marvellously stocked library. He glanced next to the small, neatly stacked sheaf of papers on the table beside a quill and a tightly capped inkwell. Frowning, he reached for the topmost page and drew it to the pallid light from the window.

As he read his own writing, he tapped a finger to his pursed lips. Then he lowered the page to his lap and stared thoughtfully into space. Finally, he blinked and leaned to set the paper back with its mates.

"Something is not right, here," he announced.

With that, he stood – and immediately burst forth in an enormous sneeze. Three times, he sneezed, after which his eyes watered and his nose ran. As he dabbed with his handkerchief, his thin face sagged in lines of gloom.

"Oh, mercy," he whimpered. "I just knew that horrid place was filled with evil humours and foul vapours – Ah-TCHOO!"

Yet he wiped his nose, gathered his wits and the hem of his robe, and took himself out the door. Once outside, he accosted the first Ranger-ish person he saw and faced the man with rigid self-importance.

"See here, my good fellow. I must speak to Captain Tarannon or Captain Halbarad, as soon as they may be found. It is most urgent, and may be germane to the case currently under scrutiny. Will you pass that message?"

The Ranger eyed the chamberlain in confusion, but nodded nonetheless. "Of course, Master Willelmus. As soon as possible."

"Thank you." Abruptly Willelmus sucked a huge breath, and turned away to blast a truly heroic sneeze. He spoke next through the folds of his handkerchief. "Blease dell theb I will be id by roob."

xxx

Driven inside by the wet weather, the Rohirrim stable hands found themselves at the mercy of a smiling hobbit lass. Having decided that it was patently ridiculous for Alfgard's men to continue pretending The Burping Troll folk did not exist, Erin took matters in her own hands. And as the tale of the Ringbearer and his faithful Sam proved, there was nothing more determined than a hobbit.

Being a hobbit, she began her strategies in the kitchen with the cook and serving maids stirring up a batch of gingerbread cookies. When the men and lads were reduced to sniffing the air like hounds, she invited them to partake of her hospitality and made certain those from The Burping Troll and Silverbrook were well interspersed amongst the Rohirrim. Any trepidation on the part of a man of Rohan to sit near the orcs, Gubbitch and Nik, or the Beorning, was swiftly countered by the hobbit's smiles, or the chatter of little Nora. When invited to join the group, Nora rushed immediately to the shape-shifter's side, and began sweetly pestering him to tell all about talking to animals. Not to be outdone by their younger sister, Alfgard's twelve-year-old twins hastily took the bench opposite the Beorning and sat alternately munching cookies and hesitantly interjecting their own questions amidst Nora's.

Flitting from table to table, pouring cider and seeing the platters of warm cookies remained within easy reach, the hobbit set about breaking down the barriers erected by war. After an hour of non-stop bustling, Erin plopped happily into a cushioned chair and smiled about the room at her handiwork.

A tall, silver-haired presence settled beside her, and Erin smiled at him. "I think we've done quite well, don't you? So many odd folk under one roof, and all that grey and gloom outside."

"Yes," Celebsul said, smiling. "You have worked your hobbit magic."

Erin tossed a shrug and said, "It really did not take much. Gubbitch is such an old character, and Nik has never been able to play with children before, and who wouldn't love Horus? He's so kind and he's handsome." Seeing the elf's rising eyebrow, she blushed and protested, "Well, he is! I should think all the ladies back in Silverbrook watch when he and Lord Darien pass."

Chuckling gently, Celebsul relaxed to enjoy the camaraderie around them. In all, the hobbit's plan had worked quite well. Now Horus and Darien sat at a table facing two of the stable hands, engaged in a particularly noisy game of knucklebones - which Horus knew as fivestones - while Nik and little Nora with Alfgard's boys played pass the slipper. Nearby, Russ and two more of the Rohirrim men discussed the best types of grains for brewing beer, even as Neal engaged Alfgard's farrier in deep discussion. At the same time, young Evan sat with Linnet and her toddlers exchanging recipes and anecdotes for healthful remedies. And lastly, Alfgard and Gubbitch had cornered three of the stable hands for a dice game - with gingerbread cookies as the wager.

"Gingerbread and parlour games," Celebsul murmured with a smile.

A cheering shout went up as Horus' deft brown fingers scooped all five stones from the table, whilst the first tossed was still in the air. A pretty bit of dexterity for a man who just hours before had lain on his sickbed. Even now, Darien kept a close eye on his friend, reminding him at every chance of Sev's strict orders not to exert himself. Horus' revenge for the coddling seemed to be winning that round handily, to the glee of their Rohirrim opponents.

Then beyond the merriment, a soft sound of footsteps up the stairwell caught Celebsul's ear. Quietly he rose and made his way around the room towards the front door, where he posted himself with arms crossed on his chest.

Looking upwards, he said pleasantly, "Hello, Sev. Do you find it a good afternoon for a walk?"

Seeing the elf leaning against the door, Sev sighed and descended the stairs quickly. Handing him her cloak, she said, "Don't start. I'm not going alone. Lugbac is coming too. He's waiting outside."

"Which does not fulfil your promise to Anardil," the elf stated and draped her cloak over her shoulders.

Sev laughed. "I am not so removed from sanity as to dare break my word to him. Raberlon has agreed to accompany me as well."

Faint concern darkened the elf's expression. "Is it necessary?"

Opening the door and frowning out into the wet, Sev said, "I did say I'd meet Sira and her soldier boy. I should have seen to it that the gloves were sent to her before now. Alfgard found them for me yesterday."

The coppery scent of rain on cobblestones wafted in on a chill gust of air.

"You have been otherwise occupied, Sevilodorf." The elf nodded to Lugbac outside, who stood head back letting the rain fall upon his face, and to the bowlegged Raberlon who splashed across from the men's barracks adjusting the sword at his hip. "Perhaps you should select another pair of escorts?"

"Why? Who would be foolish enough to bother me, with a mountain of an orc at my side? I have my knives as well." Sev slid the cuff of her sleeve up to reveal the sheath strapped to her forearm. "Raberlon's quite capable as a swordsman. We will be fine."

"Then at least let me come along," Celebsul suggested.

Sev sighed and rolled her eyes. "Don't you start fussing as well. I'm only going briefly to the bridge by the smithy. It's daylight. The village is teeming with soldiers and Rangers and officials. I have, as I said, the biggest person in existence, aside from Russ, plus a fine Rohirrim veteran as escorts."

At her words, Lugbac broke into an alarming grin while Raberlon's back straightened in pride despite the drumming rain. Sev knew that the polite elf would not insult her companions further by insisting they were replaced or reinforced. Still, she added one further safeguard.

"And you must keep an eye on my patient. Horus may seem much better, but he might relapse at any moment. Watch him at all times. Make sure he does not over-exert himself."

With a smile, she drew her hood over her head and stepped outside. Celebsul paused by the door while she led her ill matched pair of escorts down the lane towards the decidedly damp-looking Gondorian soldiers, who still stood on guard in the soggy greyness of late afternoon.

A faint sense of unease touched the elf as he watched the woman lift a hand before turning toward the village. Then she and her escorts disappeared behind the curtain of rain.

"It's a foolish thing for me to think," Celebsul murmured, "but she has not always had the best luck in the rain."

With a quiet sigh, he stepped back inside and closed the door.

xxx

Soft footsteps in the corridor preceded the arrival of three cloaked men at Willelmus' door. One of them knocked quietly.

"Come," spoke his voice from within.

Halbarad opened the door to see a small table, a basin, and a cloth-covered blob seated on the bed behind it. Long fingers lifted the edge of the cloth to reveal Willelmus' doleful face, poised over a basin of steaming water.

"Are you ill?" Halbarad asked in surprise, not entering.

"No … or perhaps." Willelmus sighed and sat back, letting the cloth slide to his shoulders. "I am hoping to expel the evil humours of The Black Cauldron before they can _make_ me ill. Dreadful, vile place."

Halbarad glanced over his shoulder at Tarannon and Anardil, and stepped inside. Anardil closed the door behind them.

"The Cauldron does not seem your sort of establishment," he said.

Willelmus levelled a glance that could have pierced glass. "Hardly. I delivered a missive for Lord Valthaur yesterday. I've only one chair, but any of you gentlemen are welcome to it."

After an exchange of gestures, Tarannon took the chair while Halbarad crouched on one heel beside him and Anardil propped himself beside the door.

"We are here, as requested" Tarannon then said, and crossed his arms on his chest. "Pray tell us why. Has it to do with The Black Cauldron?"

"It most certainly does." Willelmus scooped a piece of paper off a stack of several on the bed beside him. "I have kept notes of everything I have done, here - which, I dare say, has been little more than redundancy. That Khint fellow is a fawning carbuncle on the posterior of administrative efficiency, but Lord Valthaur seems to have use for him. I've been little more than a clerk's boy this week."

He lifted his beak-like nose haughtily as he snapped the paper stiffly between his hands then held it for scrutiny. "At any rate, there is this. Not an hour after you gentlemen delivered Lord Faramir's orders, Lord Valthaur requested me to convey a message to one Master Drath, proprietor of The Black Cauldron. Such duties I regard as demeaning to my station, but Lord Valthaur presented it as a trifling matter which had slipped his mind."

Willelmus paused to cast a stern glance over his paper. "It is not my place to question my superiors, you understand. He is, after all, one of the highest lords in the land. However -." The paper received another snap. "Upon further consideration, I find this matter beyond the pale. You see, Khint and I were privy to all Lord Valthaur's papers, and I can promise you, every one had to do with the hearing. He did not bring any files or papers pertaining to Master Drath or The Black Cauldron, or any other case, or I would have seen them."

Tarannon blinked. "And this means what?"

The chamberlain's expression became even more severe. "It means that I cannot imagine one single reason why a man of Lord Valthaur's stature would have any association with a creature like Master Drath, unless it was in the course of a legal proceeding. Since no such case exists, at least amidst the course of this venture, I find myself quite at a loss." He laid the paper down and clasped his fingers primly in his lap. "Therefore I cast the matter into your hands."

Tarannon frowned. "Then you did deliver a message to Drath for Lord Valthaur."

Willelmus frowned back. "I just said I did."

"Well." Halbarad idly rubbed the back of his head. "That backs up Lorgarth's report."

"Who?"

"The head orc who works at the Cauldron."

"Oh." Willelmus' mouth shaped itself in a moue of distaste. "Yes, one of them greeted me when I first arrived. I dare say I find little comfort in having an orc vouch for my veracity, but I'll take it as it comes. Is there any question I am telling the truth?"

"Only from Drath," Halbarad replied, and cocked an eyebrow. "We spoke to him after Lorgarth's report, and he denied you had been there at all."

Willelmus opened and closed his mouth twice before sound emerged. "Why, the very nerve! Of course, I was there! Good heavens, I'm scarcely inconspicuous – if only as the only man in that tavern who had bathed in the past month."

Tarannon leaned forward and loosely clasped his hands between his knees. "Do you have any idea what the message was about?"

"I'm afraid I do not. I took it sealed and carried it as such."

"And it was from Valthaur's own hand?"

"Oh, yes. There was no writing on the envelope and the wax seal was plain, but it bore Lord Valthaur's sigil. The hand-written cartouche he uses to mark all his correspondence. I'm sure you've seen it on correspondence from him?"

"Yes." Tarannon nodded slowly. Noticing Halbarad's questioning look, he added, "It's a very ornate script design that he draws as a sort of seal, unique and unmistakable."

Anardil stirred beside the door to add, "And virtually un-forgeable. Only the most skilled forger could ever come close to duplicating it. Which, of course, is why he uses it."

"Precisely." Willelmus gave a short nod. "Thus I am certain he was the note's author. Unfortunately I have no further clue as to its content."

"How large was this letter?" asked Tarannon.

"Oh, quite small, little more than a note."

Tarannon and Halbarad exchanged troubled glances, while Anardil rubbed his chin. Willelmus pursed his lips before speaking again.

"I am sorry, gentlemen, that I cannot tell you more. But in light of recent affairs, I felt you should possess this intelligence, sparse though it is, in hope it might prove a small piece in a greater puzzle." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he added, "That clerk, Khint, is a conniving creature, of that I am convinced. His master indulges him far too much – imagine being missing from an entire day of court! And his manner is altogether suspicious. Mark my words, he is up to no good!"

"Besides your professional differences," Anardil observed dryly, "have you anything else suspicious to note about Khint?"

The chamberlain's lips thinned. "Only that several times he managed to find free time for himself, whilst I was still transcribing and annotating and sorting. Things that should have been his job, I dare say! Lord Valthaur clearly has spoilt him."

Tarannon sat back in his chair, while Halbarad ran a hand through his hair.

"Thank you, Willelmus," said Tarannon. "Though we cannot know the import of your news, it is, as you say, a small piece in a greater puzzle."

He stood and added, "You will of course keep this conversation private?"

"Upon my word," Willelmus briskly replied. When the three men turned towards the door, he added, "It is a matter of correctness, you see. Certain things a person simply must not do."

Which undoubtedly included associating with uncouth tavern owners. Tarannon almost ventured the hint of a smile, ere he let himself and his companions out.

Back outside the barracks again, Rangers and former Ranger faced each other.

"What do you think?" asked Halbarad.

Tarannon squinted up at the heavy clouds that now decapitated all view of the Ephel Dúath. "I think I wish we could find Margul soon."

Anardil snorted. "And I wish I had two good arms and five minutes alone with Khint. He is our connection to Margul. Margul is connected to Grom. Grom shows up to work for Drath - then vanishes two days later. And Lord Valthaur sent a note to Drath. I am certain we have the pieces, friends. We simply have not learned how they all fit."

A soft pattering sound grew louder, and scattered fat raindrops splattered on their heads and shoulders. In a swirling rush the first gust of rain came.

All three flipped their hoods up over their heads, and Tarannon said, "Come, let us go to my office and run through the pieces again. Something has to shake out of this."

In long hasty strides, the three men disappeared.

xxx

The blacksmith shop stood in a small dell on the eastern edge of the village, the first structure a traveller saw when approaching on the King's road from the south. Here a merry stream passed from the forest to skirt the village's margin, churning strongly down the dell and over tumbled stones. Nearing the bridge that carried the road over the rain-swollen stream, Sevilodorf strove to ignore her companions' grumbling. Raberlon's predictions, concerning the probability of Sira not keeping the appointed meeting, too closely mirrored her own thoughts for comfort, while Lugbac's frequent halts to peer into the brush along the road and mutter to himself grew increasingly irritating.

"It would've made a heap more sense to leave the gloves at The Whistling Dog," the aging man complained in the broadest Rohirrim. "No need for you to be traipsing around in the rain tending to the likes of that girl."

Sev snorted. "Be honest, Raberlon. It's the lost chance for a pint of Cameroth's ale that has you more upset than the fact that I'm getting wet."

"No," the old man responded sourly, "'tis the fact I'm getting wet as well."

The hold on her temper frayed and Sev snapped, "You didn't have to come. I would have found someone else." Then as Lugbac came to another sudden stop, she switched to Westron and exclaimed, "Whatever is the matter, Lugbac?"

The orc peered intently toward the east, but all that could be seen in the dim light were the dark, dripping branches of trees. From here, they could just hear the muted, steady thump of the blacksmith's bellows and the intermittent clang of his hammer.

Nonetheless, Lugbac grumbled, "There's something out there."

"Probably a Ranger search party," Sev rationalised.

"Don't smell like Rangers." The large orc inhaled deeply. "Smells like battle."

Raberlon stepped quickly between Sev and the road's edge with one hand upon his sword. In his native tongue, he said softly, "Best we turn back, missus. Creature's got better sense than we do."

Sev slipped one knife free of its sheath, but stood undecided looking into the darkness. "I don't see anything, and it's closer to the smithy than it is to town."

"Aye, that it is." The man drew his sword and waved her toward the bridge. "Go on with you."

Any protest Sev thought to make was cut short by a calm voice from the woods.

"One moment if you please."

Lugbac's reverberating growl did as much to freeze the hearts of the Rohirrim as the five leering orcs creeping from the brush. Following them walked a tall man with one arm wrapped tightly about Sira's throat. A silver-handled knife glinted at her breast and the girl's terrified eyes pleaded for help.

Raberlon spoke swiftly. "She's done for, missus. No sense you wasting yourself as well. Run!" On the final word, the old man charged forward with a war cry, Lugbac only a step behind.

Everything became far too late. Snarling orcs plunged while Raberlon roared with each swing of his sword and Lugbac slung his great fists and howled. Like wolves they came, leaping and tearing. Sev threw a knife to impact an orc's arm as Raberlon's swift blade severed its hand. Lugbac seized one of their foes by the throat and flung another orc slam against an oak, while Sev scrabbled for her second blade – and Raberlon buckled with a choking cry. When he hit the ground, Sev ducked and dropped to her knees, the jagged scythe that felled him thrumming over her head. She caught the old man's sleeve, but his last words were lost in blood. Backwards she scrambled, desperate, breath seizing in her chest as Lugbac yowled anew, enemy orcs hanging from his great frame as he struggled and fought. Another orc leapt after her, rusted blade swinging back and up –.

"HOLD!" a man's voice shouted. "I want her alive."

The orc snarled and swung hilt-first, aborting the desperate slash of her second knife with stunning force. Her blade flew aside as she scrambled again, and the orc's backhand sledged her to the muddy road. His stinking weight slammed upon her, driving the scream from her chest before she could give voice, and a hard knee pressed upon her throat. Lugbac went abruptly silent.

Everything went silent.

Sev heard the rasping breath of the creature whose weight crushed her into the muck, but she dared not open her eyes. Rain splattered in her upturned face. Above the watery tumult of the nearby stream, she could just hear the dull thumping of the blacksmith's bellows. She turned her head in an effort to breathe past the orc's knee against her throat, and a gurgling growl sounded somewhere nearby. Then a slow tread of squelching footsteps came towards her.

She opened her eyes to rain, slate sky, and a man's leg. Her gaze travelled upwards, over clothes such as any town merchant might wear, and halted at a neatly trimmed grey beard and almost colourless silvery eyes. Held in the circle of his arm like a lover, Sira sagged white-faced behind the knife he still pressed to her breast.

"Really, my dear," said Margul, "what did you think to accomplish?"

Sev coughed against the pressure to her throat, wishing she could spit. Margul merely chuckled and turned away, dragging Sira with him. From her lowered vantage point, Sev watched him fling the barmaid about and shove her reeling towards the orc Raberlon had maimed. Sira shrieked as the creature caught her with its good arm and crushed her against its chest. A trembling moan escaped her tightly contorted lips.

Margul walked on to where Lugbac still heaved and growled beneath the weight of three other orcs. As Sev watched, one of the orcs struck Lugbac a blow that would have crushed the skull of an ordinary man. Lugbac's great arms sagged slowly, fists clenching and clenching.

With a dry chuckle, Margul knelt to peer down at the huge, fallen orc. "Now you are interesting." Lugbac's eyes blinked blearily open and the man spoke on. "Done a bit of damage, that you have. A pity to see it go to waste."

Indeed, as the orcs who held him snarled, Sev realised all three of them bore the marks of barehanded combat, black blood smeared from bites, gouges and torn ears. Margul cocked his head as he regarded the captive.

"But you've grown weak living with the tarks. Would you like a chance to be strong again?" Lugbac growled his reply in the Black Speech, but Margul only laughed.

"Fool," he said. "She is not your friend. Orcs have no friends. They need no friends, only a master."

He stood and announced, "Bind him boys. We will try to show him the error of his ways, and if he won't listen, it will only be more fresh meat."

Margul turned to Sev. "Grom, let the lady up." Casting a glance aside, he observed blandly, "Pity about your friend. An old family retainer, I suppose."

As her orcish captor stood, Sev sat up and heaved for a proper breath. She coughed before rasping, "What do you want, you scum? Filth - warg dung - bloated maggot -." She lapsed into Rohirric when Westron failed her.

Whether Margul understood the words, he could not miss her intent, and he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Such language from a lady. I simply want to talk to the two of you. We have business to finish.

Terrified and hating, Sev grated, "I have no business with you."

Beneath the sodden edge of his hood, Margul's eyebrows rose. "Ah, but you do. Come, let us find a bit more privacy than the open road. Grom, bring the lady. Ursak, gag that one and bring her. The rest of you, bind and lead our new friend and try not to maim him overmuch."

As Grom's taloned hand seized her arm, Sev found herself heaved upright onto her feet and into the stark, stomach-clutching realisation of despair. She cast a desperate glance towards the smithy, but it remained shuttered; the muted sounds of bellows and hammer continued - the smith himself apparently deafened by his own labours. The village, though only a couple hundred yards away, lay beyond a rise of the stream's bank; nobody could see her or her captors, and those shut indoors from the rain probably had heard nothing. Avoiding Sira's stricken eyes, she swallowed hard against the choking rise of panic.

She watched Margul lean down to Lugbac and clamp long fingers on the orc's skull, forcing his head back to face Sev, standing firmly in Grom's clutches. His next words were the seal of doom.

"Listen to me, big fellow, and listen well. I'll give her to the lads to play with if you don't cooperate. Understand?"

The fury of battle spent, Lugbac's eyes were wide and frightened as he met Sev's look and nodded beneath Margul's grasp. Thereupon Margul turned to roll Raberlon's body over with one toe.

"And bring this. We don't want to leave any traces behind."

While the gloom of evening descended early beneath the weight of rain, captors and captives disappeared into the forest. Soon the only signs left were some rapidly vanishing pools of blood, and a single kid glove, trampled into the muck. In their wake, the thump and clang of the blacksmith continued.

xxx

TBC ...


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen **

"Sira, I have been thinking, and there is something I must tell - No, no, that won't do. Sira, if you will walk with me, we must talk about - argh, that's even worse."

Footsteps crunched in a muddy lane, as a hooded figure made its way towards the village's eastern edge. Solitary though he was, the man wrapped inside that cloak earnestly conversed with the thoughts swirling in his head.

"Sira, lately I have been thinking that - Oh, bother!" The face within revealed itself as that of a pleasant-looking young man, though presently visibly vexed with himself. He sighed, and muttered, "Why must it be so difficult?"

His long-legged stride slowed to an ambling pace as he crunched further along, head bent against the pattering rain. "Sira, would you consider - Confound it, Ted, you're acting like a foolish boy. Just come right out and say what you mean."

What Ted meant and what he could say, however, remained a conundrum that he wrestled while he strolled past shuttered shops and houses. Huddled within the heavy wool of his cloak, he muttered half-sentences and sighed and groaned, until the veriest fool would have known that here walked a man in the agonies of love.

Not that Ted was a callow boy, nor was Sira a pure, chaste maiden. But to him she revealed a sweet, girlish side that few ever saw, and the gossip of the town made no difference to him. He cared for her and she lent him her truest smiles, even though he had nothing to offer but the kindness of his heart.

That heart continued to vex him until he looked up and realised he had passed beyond the last buildings and the bridge stood yonder as a grey, hunched shape in the rain. He frowned when he saw no sign of Sira. A few squelching paces later and he could hear the thumping of the blacksmith's bellows and the muffled, intermittent clang of his hammer.

Upon reaching the bridge, Ted paused and looked around. He turned and glanced back the way he had come, just in case he had arrived before her. However, he saw no feminine form hurrying up the lane, only an empty track beginning to dribble puddles of water. Ted sighed deeply. He stood there several minutes, torn between hope and disappointment, before shaking his head.

"Idiot," he said. "She's probably waiting in the smithy - out of the rain, unlike your fool self."

The blacksmith shop had gone silent, now, but he could just see a glimmer of lantern light past the shutters. With a final glance towards the village proper, Ted trudged on over the bridge to the forge. There he rapped on the door and waited for the burly smith to answer amidst a cloud of metallic odours.

No, Sira had not taken shelter here. With rueful thanks, Ted turned away.

"Ted!" The blacksmith's gravely voice turned him round again. "Sira's not here, but this stuff you're supposed to collect is." A muscular arm pointed to a sack just inside the door.

"Oh." His reason for being out of the garrison during working hours had completely slipped Ted's mind. Distractedly, he glanced over to the bridge and asked, "Can I fetch it a bit later?"

A twinkle lit the smith's eyes, and he huffed in indulgent humour. "Aye, Ted. But don't be long or I'll be having to file the rust off you. Weather's not fit for man nor beast."

Stepping once more into the cold, insistent rain, Ted felt more than a little embarrassed.

"Fool," he muttered as he plodded back towards the bridge. "She's probably safe home and dry. You're the only one moon-struck enough to …"

He let the thought trail off and glanced up at the dark, dripping shapes of the trees that lined the road. Back across the bridge he walked, his pace quickening as the rain spattered harder.

It was only by merest chance that he looked down to see a curious shape in the mud. Ted halted and bent to peer closer, then picked it up. In his fingers he held a very small, very nice lady's glove.

"Blast," he sighed. "She said she was getting gloves for her poor hands - she was here and I missed her."

Tucking the wet glove into a pocket, he lengthened his stride towards the village and The Whistling Dog.

"I'm very sorry, Sira," he mumbled as he walked. "I lost track of time and - no, no, that sounds silly. Sira, forgive me, I -."

xxx

_Somewhere in the forests of Ithilien_

Twilight crept upon the Ephel Dúath, as rain whispered through dark branches and dripped from the fingers of tall, gloomy firs. Though the heavy stand of trees offered cover from the rain and shielded a hidden campfire, that shelter was no place of comfort.

The mewling whimpering sounds finally stopped. Whether because the girl had slipped once again into unconsciousness, or succumbed to the blows their captor took much delight in meting out, Sev had no way of knowing. As a further modicum of cruelty, the silver-eyed demon had ordered the healer bound in such a fashion that she could clearly hear Sira's torment, but all she could see were tumbled boulders, brooding trees and Raberlon's discarded body. Evening came early beneath the trees, but as much as she dreaded the fall of night, she found herself wishing to hasten its shadows, that they might obscure that good man's dishonour from her view.

If the old Rohirrim's mangled remains were to have provided a constant reminder of the fate which lay in store for the captives, that purpose had been served. If, however, the intent had been to reduce her to a quivering mass of cowardice, the scum leading this horde of evil had miscalculated. Raised in a culture which demanded women to stand dry-eyed before the barrows of their sons and husbands, the certainty of her death served Sev as the armour needed to listen to Sira's cries without displaying the fear the man so obviously wished to elicit.

Clenching and unclenching her fists in an attempt to maintain some circulation in chilled fingers, Sev considered what course she should take to make their deaths most meaningful; and if possible, less painful. The power Margul exercised over his five orc minions made it unlikely they would disobey his orders to ensure the captives remained alive. Thus two options remained: either she and Sira must become more valuable alive and untouched, than dead; or she must find a way to cause the monster to lose his temper and kill them cleanly. The latter, though infinitely preferable to being brutalised by the orcs, would be more difficult to achieve. The fury of the man simmered beneath the surface, but his love of cruelty appeared, for the moment, to be a sufficient bridle.

Thus she would focus on finding a way to turn his attention from Sira. From the questions he had asked the maid, questions for which the girl had no answers, Margul's primary objective was the return of his property, or so he named the orc whom Russ and Anardil had captured threatening Cullen. His second goal, one not so blatantly stated but easily inferred, was to locate Cullen and exact a revenge for past injuries. If Sev provided a possibility for the achievement of those goals, perhaps the man would leave Sira in momentary peace.

Beyond the hunched shape of a boulder, firelight cast spastic, flinching shadows among the trees. Somewhere beyond her view, Sev heard Margul exhale in disgust.

"Pathetic wench," he spat. "Give her a moment to wake up again."

Swallowing, Sev stated in a clear voice, "She doesn't know anything about them."

The man stepped into her line of sight, his face halved by ruddy firelight and the deep blues of dusk. "You are ready then to discuss business."

The flat statement, coupled with an unmistakable air of triumph, caused Sev's heart to plunge. The chill of a rainy evening suddenly gripped her to the bone. Had she placed herself squarely in some devious trap? Was there any way to turn his excess confidence against him? To ponder her own death alone suddenly seemed a far different thing than when the architect of her demise stared down at her with shimmering eyes. Nonetheless, Sev steeled herself to turn the silent yammering of terror into a fierce snarl of loathing.

She jerked at the ropes binding her. "If you conduct all your business in such a fashion, 'tis no wonder you are not more successful."

An infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes let her know she had pricked his pride.

"That would depend upon your definition of success, would it not?" He smiled lazily. "There are many who find this method of business most…entertaining."

Sev forced herself to shrug. "I have found mixing business with pleasure usually results in lowered profits."

Margul laughed, but without humour. "You are indeed a treasure, my dear. Not a beauty, like our dear Sira, but a jewel nonetheless."

"I'm afraid I place little value in such flattery, sir. Especially given my circumstances."

"Circumstances have a way of changing." Margul stepped towards her and sank to a crouch at her side. His nearness crowded her disturbingly and his strange eyes glimmered in the gloom. "Perhaps we might come to a mutually profitable agreement."

Desperately willing her voice to not betray the frantic pace of her heart, Sev replied dryly, "What could I possibly have of value to a sterling businessman like yourself?"

"Information. I find it necessary to leave this area rather sooner than I planned, and I do so hate to leave unfinished business behind."

"As you did before?"

His sudden blow snapped her head against the tree at her back. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth as her teeth cut into her tongue.

While her wits reeled, he shifted so the firelight fell more fully upon his face, and his rebuke came in clipped tones. "As refreshing as I find this conversation, insolence will not be tolerated. You said Sira doesn't know anything about them, therefore you do. Tell me."

Sev lifted her chin and glimpsed the man's ghostly eyes. "Why should I?"

Margul leaned closer and ran a finger along her jaw, chills of revulsion following his touch, and then he pointed toward Raberlon's body. "Because, madam, there are many ways to die."

"Aye," Sev answered in a shaky whisper, then forced herself to meet his gaze directly. "But what assurance do I have that you would keep your side of any bargain?"

Satisfaction lent an unearthly beauty to the man. "My word as a businessman, my dear."

Somehow Sev managed to bite her lip before a bitter laugh could escape. Did she appear that naïve? Perhaps she would have made a good spy. A pity she would have no further opportunities to practice. Ruthlessly, she set aside the thought, for fear would prove her undoing. She could not afford the distraction of regret. Having seen the remains of those captured and made playthings by orcs like those following Margul, she had no intention of ending her life in such a fashion.

"I suppose that's the best guarantee I'll get in this situation," Sev finally said.

"The only one you'll need, my dear. You will find I am a man of my word, even when others break their vows to me."

A sneer twisted his face, and Sev wondered who had been foolish enough to renege on a promise made to this man.

"Your orc is being kept in the icehouse at the stable yard."

Margul nodded. "And my other servant?"

Sev feigned puzzlement and let a hint of her fear tighten her voice. "There's someone else? No one was brought in. I've told you what I know. Isn't it enough?"

In a voice cold as death, the man stated, "You said 'them'."

"The Rangers!" Her mind raced around the torturous curves of duplicity. "The Rangers who captured your orc."

Seizing her hair and twisting her head to face him, Margul studied her. "I might believe you, if I did not know of the deception you so recently practiced. Clever of you to use the apothecary to lend countenance to your little farce."

"There was no farce," she responded through gritted teeth as he clenched his fist in her hair.

"You expect me to believe the Swerting was ill?" He snorted in rich disdain, and with a shove released his grip. "I have been closer than you know. Banazîr's records show the remedies requested by you. Some are rather strange choices for the treatment of bolgur. I hope the old man is sturdier than he appears. The penalty for giving false testimony before a court of Gondor is severe."

"No one lied. I told no lies," Sev hissed. "And Banazîr only reported on what he saw and speculated as to the cause of the Southron's illness."

At the sincerity in the Rohirrim woman's voice, Margul drew back. His eyes narrowed in thought, and then he smiled and chuckled. Patting her lightly on the jaw, he said, "Marvellous, my dear. You actually made the man ill, so you would not have to lie. I believe I will have to keep you with me for a while. It will be invigorating to speak with someone possessing a truly devious mind. Orcs, as I'm sure you know, have little to recommend them when it comes to scintillating conversation."

An image of Gubbitch and Celebsul, debating stratagems for board games that left Sev utterly confused, popped into her head. Although, having some sense, she did not relate the memory to the man now regarding her with something akin to amused approval.

Margul's features rearranged into an expression of innocence, and he returned to his earlier question. "Then you know nothing about my good man, Cullen? I owe him some back wages and wish to pay him. "

"I've been in the sickroom for the past few days." Sev let a scowl of impatience distort her face. "Maybe the orc locked up in the icehouse knows where Cullen has disappeared. Or the Rangers. They certainly don't tell me everything they do."

The aggrieved tone, signifying that if the Rangers had bothered to consult her things might have gone a great deal differently, struck the right chord with Margul. He nodded, stood up and stepped away.

"Very well, my dear. I will believe you, though be aware I have an exceptionally low tolerance for those who lie."

The shudder Sev could not entirely suppress at the thought of what the man would do if he should catch her in a lie did not escape Margul's notice.

xxx

Fire blazed in the large hearth at The Whistling Dog. Less crowded than usual, the main room housed only those who were staying at the inn, plus a few hardy villagers to whom the heavy rain proved no deterrent; such folk were ardent lovers of beer, or dedicated escapees from the burdensome bosoms of their families. Steam and the odour of wet wool rose from the discarded cloaks and soaked trouser legs of men sitting near the fireplace.

Anardil and Halbarad, however, despite being more than a little damp, occupied chairs in a cooler corner where the Silverbrook men had settled themselves to enjoy their supper. Recently returned from the stables, Neal and Evan grinned through a cheerful ribbing by Carrick and Bevin for leaving the older men to do the 'babysitting'. Anardil was glad to see Ham and Tom at least joined in the mirth. Osric clearly never would discover a sense of humour, or for that matter, any other quality of merit.

Having established that Lord Darien's more trustworthy fellows still maintained some degree of control over their errant comrades, Anardil felt more than ready to go back to the stables for his own supper. Captain Halbarad, on the other hand, remained locked in a pointless debate with the mule-headed Osric. None but Anardil noticed the landlord's son burst from the kitchen's back corridor and run up to the bar, his clothes dripping wet, while an equally soggy man followed quickly behind. The exchange between Jasimir and his father was almost inaudible from where Anardil sat, but he heard the names 'Sira' and 'Sevilodorf' clearly enough.

"Hal." The ex-Ranger shook his comrade's shoulder. "Something's happened. Come on."

Without waiting for a reply, Anardil grabbed his cloak and swiftly crossed the room. He reached the trio at the bar with Halbarad just a step behind.

"Ah, I was just going to call you over," Cameroth said in relief when he saw them. "I sent Jasimir out to look for Sira. She was supposed to meet Ted," he nodded to the stranger, "at the smithy. But she's late coming back and Ted says she wasn't there. He was on his way here when he met Jas."

The white-faced man, introduced as Ted, held out a shaking hand to reveal a small kid glove. His youthful, earnest features registered deep distress while he spoke.

"She must have been there before me. I found this on the ground. If she's not here, where could she be?"

Anardil's hackles, which were rising by the second, bristled like boar hairs when Jasimir added, "She was also going to meet Mistress Sevilodorf there, to try on the gloves …"

For a moment, time froze. Anardil looked towards the window where rain spattered and spilt in rivulets, and his memory hurtled back to a late afternoon in January when the rain fell as heavily as now, and the terrible events that started this entire situation had befallen Sev.

Pushing the haunting recollection aside, Anardil knew he must act swiftly. "Jasimir, can you take us to where Sira was to meet Sev?"

The boy exchanged a glance with his father who nodded assent, and then Anardil, Captain Halbarad and Ted followed Jasimir out into the rain.

xxx

The elf's keen eyes could see through shadows and showers - only solid obstacles and the horizon limited his view. Leaning out of the open door of Alfgard's home, Celebsul scanned the rain-spattered path with increasing concern. Sev should have been back by now.

Behind him, in the body of the house, conversation and laughter continued. There was no one amongst the group whom he wished to visit his disquiet upon. Both Erin and Alfgard knew that Sev had gone to talk to Sira, but neither seemed troubled by the extended absence. Being a stubborn and independent woman, Sev most often trod her own path and set her own timescales. Perhaps she had called in on the apothecary or her friends at The Whistling Dog.

Perhaps.

xxx

When they arrived at the bridge, all four were breathless, even young Jasimir who had led the race through the village. The forge now stood silent, and the only sounds were of men catching their breath, and water. Everywhere, water. The swollen stream rushed noisily over rocks. Miniature rivers ran in the edges of the road while muddy pools shimmered all about them. Into those pools fell sullen plunks of raindrops from both sky and trees. Though here in the open some daylight remained, a sense of urgency gripped them, for the leaden greyness of the clouds would bring an early nightfall.

"Here. Here's where I found the glove." Ted crouched and gestured.

"You and Jasimir stand back now, Ted," Captain Halbarad instructed. "If there are any clues remaining in this morass as to where Sira and Sev might have gone, Anardil and I will find them."

Ranger and ex-Ranger began a painstaking inspection of the area, eyes scanning every inch, and fingers sifting through mud and water. Their search gradually widened and left the road. Neither Ted nor Jasimir, following behind, could fathom what signs guided the two men who moved in unison, touching the branches of shrubs and peering into tussocks of grass.

When nothing of significance seemed to emerge, Jasimir suggested hopefully, "Perhaps the ladies went to Alfgard's to be out of the rain."

Halbarad began to answer him, "Aye, that's possible …"

"No!"

Anardil's hissed exclamation almost vanished under the sibilant noise of the stream. He fell to his knees in the mire and lifted something from the ground. It flashed in his hand before he quickly shielded the object beneath his cloak.

"What?" Halbarad gave voice to the question frozen on Ted's and Jasimir's tongues.

Without looking up, Anardil replied, "One of Sev's knives."

"Might she have dropped it?" Ted asked, for want of anything better to say.

Now Anardil turned his head, but his gaze sought out Halbarad. "There is still a trace of blood."

Ted did not want this to be happening. "Might she have accidentally cut herself, then dropped it?"

"The blood is black."

Into the ensuing silence, stepped a silver-haired elf, his eyes scanning the grim expressions surrounding him. Without a word, he went to crouch by Anardil and examined the knife. Only then did he speak.

"She didn't return. I came looking for her."

Anardil's face twisted for a moment while he struggled against pain, fear and anger. "Who was guarding her, Celebsul?"

"Raberlon and Lugbac."

Anardil rose in a swift motion to glare down at the elf. "An old man and an orc!"

"They were who she chose, Anardil." Celebsul stood up then started his own inspection of the area.

Halbarad resumed his slow, searching pace. "Could the blood be Lugbac's? He's clumsy enough to manage to get skewered by mistake."

Receiving no answer, the Ranger Captain wondered if Ted's misguided optimism might be contagious.

"Sorry, a stupid question," he admitted. "It is clear that a skirmish of some sort took place here. There are imprints of at least half-a-dozen different sized boots, most of orcish design. Jasimir, run as fast as you can and fetch Captain Tarannon and as many of his men as can be spared."

The lad sped off immediately, leaving Ted standing alone with a confused expression. "A skirmish? Why would my Sira be in a skirmish? And where is she?"

"As to where she is," Halbarad explained, "we are going to look for her. The one ray of hope in all this is that there are no bodies. Why Sira and Sevilodorf were caught up in whatever happened, we can but speculate."

Anardil stood motionless as the rain pattered more strongly. His voice, however, sounded quite certain.

"Margul."

xxx

They had dragged her closer to the fire, offering some respite from the growing chill, but no comfort. Sev's heart leapt into her throat when an orc loomed out of the deepening gloom and shuffled towards her. It crouched and hissed, open-mouthed, directly into her face. Nausea at the foul reek of its breath curdled her stomach, but the beast did no more than tug at the knots that bound her. Apparently satisfied, it shambled off again.

From her new vantage point, Sev could see both Lugbac and Sira. The big orc stood tied with both arms embracing a mature pine; head lowered and slumping against the rough trunk. Dim firelight illumined his tattered shirt, sliced by whip, blade and talon, which provided silent testimony to his battle. A battle he would have fought to his death, save for the threats Margul made concerning Sev's treatment if Lugbac did not cease fighting. Curled about herself, Sira lay in the narrow vee formed from two fallen trees. Though her face bore signs of a beating, her clothing appeared intact, and there was no evidence of the other deprivations Sev had feared.

No wonder the snake appeared so smug, Sev thought. He had gained the information he sought for far less effort than she imagined he expended. She huddled against the clinging damp and listened to the rain whisper in the heavy boughs overhead.

Moments later, the silhouette of the thin man appeared. Margul propped himself nonchalantly against a tree trunk and said amiably, "I must leave you for a short while to retrieve my belongings. If you are good, my lads will not bother you. If you try anything, I have instructed them to make your wait extremely unpleasant, at least from your point of view."

Pushing the threat immediately into a dark corner of her mind, Sev bit back a caustic retort. She could hardly try anything whilst tied so securely.

It seemed the man needed no response. His conversational banter continued.

"I don't anticipate that Sira will be lucky enough to escape my intentions for a second time. These lads are not careless, unlike the unfortunate Minna. But you, my dear, appear able to evade everything from kidnappers, to landslides, to ambushes." He crossed his arms on his chest, firelight lapping across his expression of wry amusement. "Though you are most probably oblivious to the fact, you have interfered with my plans on several occasions, and caused my most valued client a great deal of inconvenience. But all of this will be forgiven if I achieve my objectives tonight."

Blood chilling in her veins, Sev wondered how the man knew so much about her misfortunes. But of more immediate concern were his current designs. A questioning tilt of her head proved sufficient incentive for Margul to smile and elaborate.

"Firstly, my personal objective: to bring my servants back under my guardianship. Your information will be invaluable to that end. You will also assist in my professional objective."

Unable to stop herself, Sev asked, "How so?"

The silvery eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Your friends will notice your disappearance, my dear - as, no doubt, will Sira's. Search parties will be scouring even now most probably, scattering Rangers far and wide. Ah, I read your thoughts clearly. But I am not as careless as you imagine." He held out one long-fingered hand towards the drops hissing beyond the sheltering boughs. "The rain has washed away most of our tracks, and any that remain in the vicinity have been taken care of by my lads. Earlier, they laid several false trails that will undoubtedly survive the elements better than the true one. And while ever your comrades search for you, their attention is diverted from the other little problem I must deal with."

Pushing his shoulder off the tree, Margul stood straight-backed before her. "Wish me success, my dear. If I return contented, then you and I will have the opportunity to get to know one another much better."

He spun around to leave, but another word escaped Sev's lips. "Sira?"

Margul's head turned and shook slowly. "You have far too much compassion. Sira detests you and look where your ministrations for the girl have brought you. Please do not disappoint me with sentimentality; it does not suit a cunning mind."

Swallowing the entreaties which would only have revealed her weakness, Sev remained stone faced as the man snapped his fingers and directed the orc, Grom, to gag her.

"Not so tightly, Grom. The lady has been co-operative to this point and deserves to be rewarded." Addressing Sev, Margul added, "I do it so that you will not be forced to lie and swear you would not shout for help if one of those searching for you appeared nearby."

The cloth now tightly about her mouth, Sev was forced to forgo her scathing refusal of his courtesy, though her eyes left little doubt to her sentiments.

Margul nodded his approval. "Indeed, our relationship shall be a most entertaining one. I've had no one willing to match wits against me for quite some time. Remember to behave yourself, my lads are quite eager for some sport."

Walking into the murkiness and rain, Margul vanished from sight, Grom and another orc slouching behind him. Shortly after, the firelight extinguished, leaving the night as black as Sev's despair. She had not wished to intrigue the man, but to infuriate him. And now, even if he achieved what he wished, she was left with no doubts regarding Sira's fate. As for Lugbac, Sev could not decide which filled her with more horror; the idea of him becoming like those creatures who clung to Margul's coat tails, or the thought of the torment he would be forced to endure if he did not. The chill of the ground numbed Sev's body, making her thought-processes seem sluggish. 'The other little problem I must deal with.' What might that mean?

Then suddenly she knew. Everything, the whole bloody mess, revolved around the rights of orcs - Margul's tools, some of whom, given a chance, might cease their bloodthirsty ways and seek masters like Gubbitch and Lorgarth, like Farmer Tiroc and other open-minded men. But not before they had proof that the 'rights' meant something real - not until justice showed both faces, innocence as well as guilt. Only after an accused orc was set free from a court of law, would the race have any faith in those hard-won rights.

Margul's one little problem was surely the first orc who stood a chance of walking from a hearing with his innocence upheld.

Without realising, Sev struggled against her bonds while she imagined the worst that might happen: Anardil and the Rangers finding too many trails and asking Russ and Celebsul to help; Darien, Horus and Alfgard joining the search; even the stable-hand guards and soldiers. The only ones left behind would be women, children and, of course, Nik. No one would allow the orc at the centre of the hearing to wander abroad at night.

Fear for herself and Sira fled, as Sev's waking nightmare painted an image of the little Uruk-hai standing alone in the stable yard waiting for his friends to come back.

xxx

The search proved relatively easy at first, despite fading light, rain and mud. In response to Jasimir's alarm, Captain Tarannon arrived with his most experienced men, who carefully spread out ensuring that any tracks leaving the main group would not be overlooked. It also helped that an elf lent his keen senses to the endeavour; as fast as the sodden blue of dusk continued to deepen, his would soon be the only eyes that could see.

Little time passed before the terrain became difficult, veering up into a steep rock-strewn incline. Here grew evergreen trees draped with thick, lush leaves that made the darkness more intense. The trail petered out under fresh mud and pebbles washed down between boulders and trunks. Debris from the intermittent downpours lay everywhere: twigs, leaves, shale.

Ted, who had insisted on coming despite Jasimir being sent home, began to prove a liability when his optimism fled to be replaced by nightmarish speculation.

"What would orcs want with her?" His breathless query was punctuated by the scramble of an ill-placed step. "Would they keep her alive? Captain Tarannon, if we find her, what do you -?"

"Do NOT –" Tarannon wheeled on the young man, a rigid shadow in the gloom. "Do not finish that sentence. In fact, shut up."

The Ranger turned and nearly collided with Anardil.

Tightly the one-armed man said, "Get him away from me. As far from me as you possibly can."

With a curt nod, Tarannon tapped Ted sharply and led him off, to distract someone else further a-field.

The Rangers fanned out further in an effort to locate clear signs of where their quarry might have gone. Yet night had come early beneath the forest canopy, turning the search for tracks into a hunt for scent or sound. Soon Anardil stood frustrated in the middle, and swore under his breath when the rain began to fall heavily once more. An owl's hoot sounded to his right. Something had been found. After several moments, Halbarad and Celebsul appeared from amongst the trees.

"We've rediscovered the trail," the Ranger whispered. "It's over here."

Anardil followed his comrade, not noticing at first that the silent elf remained behind. Minutes later, another eerie hoot echoed from the left. Anardil ignored it while he examined the clear scrape mark of an iron-boot on a mossy stone, then the white end of a snapped branch a little further on. Without doubt, orcs had passed this way. Turning around, Anardil and Halbarad felt no surprise to see Celebsul standing before them.

"Tarannon has found another trail."

"You think they might have split up?" Hal asked the elf.

"That is one explanation. Perhaps you should look."

They retraced their steps and eventually joined Tarannon at the second trail. Metal scuffs etched rock, and black blood smeared a tree trunk sheltered from the rain by a canopy of leaves. Shaking his head in irritation, Anardil retraced his steps yet again to stand midway between the trails. The Ranger Captains came with him.

"We should split up into two groups," Tarannon declared.

Anardil scowled and blew air between his teeth. "Something is wrong … and where is that dratted elf now?" He rubbed furiously at his beard. "Give me time to think."

"But …" Halbarad began, desperate that so much time had passed.

Anardil threw up his arm in anguish. "I know! I know! Just a minute, please."

The captains exchanged glances then fell silent. Darkness shimmered and Celebsul stood alongside them. Noting his presence, Anardil nodded acknowledgement then spoke.

"How does a clear trail vanish into thin air, then reappear in two different places? If they were careless enough to leave such signs, why are there none whatsoever between the three ends? Have orcs taken to riding eagles?"

"Excellent questions." Celebsul stepped forward and held out his hand. Something appeared to be gripped between his thumb and forefinger, but in the darkness it could not be discerned.

"What is it?" The men gathered round to peer closely.

"A single strand of red hair."

Anardil almost grinned. "Where did you find it?"

The elf nodded to the rise immediately above them. "A third, almost invisible trail."

"A very clever fox, this Margul," Halbarad muttered.

"But how clever?" speculated Anardil. "How many layers of deceit is he capable of, or is he arrogant enough to think the false trails alone will fool us? We cannot take unnecessary risks. Captain Tarannon, perhaps it would be as well to send a couple of your Rangers along each side track while the rest of us take the hidden one."

Celebsul's soft voice interrupted. "Something else must be considered. While we are clearly anxious about our friends, we must ask why they have apparently been captured and why such elaborate measures were put in place to distract us."

"In answer to the first, I would think revenge," Tarannon responded. "At least from what Sira seems to have said."

Halbarad frowned. "But why Sev?"

"Wrong place at the wrong time?" the other captain suggested.

"No. Not that simple." Anardil stared longingly up at the dark hill then winced. "He would have just killed anyone he didn't need. And while it might be revenge in Sev's case as well, she does have something else of importance to him, if he suspects it."

"You're right!" Halbarad exclaimed quietly. "Sev knows where we hid the orc and Cullen. Damn! And the false trails must have been set to delay or scatter us. We better send someone to the stables to warn them, just in case. Wait here, Anardil. We'll get things organised and be right back."

The two captains disappeared into the darkness, leaving ex-Ranger and elf dripping uselessly beneath the rain.

"Does this all not seem too familiar, Celebsul?"

A grim smile curved the elf's lips. "You refer to when Sev was kidnapped by Darien and his men. It is that connection which brought me in search of her this time - the thought that Sev and bad weather are not a lucky combination."

Turning his eyes to the last midnight blue hint of light in the weeping sky, Anardil huffed in wry humour. "When we get her back, I swear I'll lock her in the closet every time it rains."

xxx

TBC ...


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

_Alfgard's Holdings_

The rain pattered liquid darkness against the windows, but lanterns and a warm hearth kept the chill of the storm outside. However, it could not warm the chill that gripped the hearts of those gathered in the main hall of Alfgard's house.

"I can't believe it's happening again," sighed Erin, elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

On the settee beside her, Linnet wrapped a motherly arm around the hobbit's bowed shoulders. "Try not to imagine the worst," the Rohirrim woman said gently. "Your friends are determined men, and Captain Tarannon's Rangers are the best in Gondor. They will find Sevilodorf."

"I hope so." Erin raised haunted eyes to watch the rain drizzle like tears down the darkened panes. "I surely hope so."

At one side of the great hearth, Russ' massive form hunched in grim stillness, while beside him Nik worked at a bit of whittling. Judging by the growing pile of shavings at the little Uruk's feet, however, his mind was not on creativity.

At the other end of the hearth another figure sat, Horus slim and dark. He clasped his fingers loosely between his knees as he watched Darien pace, then halt, then pace again before him. Finally, he cleared his throat meaningfully. He lifted his eyebrows when Darien stopped and looked down at him.

"You cannot help what is, my friend," Horus said, the liquid accent of Harad gentle in the tense quiet. "You must trust to what is being done."

Darien sighed and ran one hand through his already untidy hair. "I never thought of what it must have been like, the first time. When I was the captor and Mistress Sev's friends waited thus. Now … I can think of nothing else. I started this, Horus. I started all this."

A wordless rumbling from Russ' end of the carefully fitted stones suggested at least one person agreed wholly with that assessment.

"I wish I could help," said Nik, and his shoulders slumped as he looked down at the heap of pale, curling slivers at his feet. "At least last time I was there to help her."

Horus, however, stood and with a light touch on the shoulder turned Darien towards a nearby cushioned chair.

"You do not govern the hatred of other men," Horus stated firmly. "You are everything this Margul is not - foremost, a man with a conscience."

Darien sank into the chair, but then dragged both hands slowly over his face. Through his fingers he said, "If they do not find her - if she is -."

Quick brown fingers flashed before Darien's face in warding, startling him to silence. Fiercely Horus hissed, "Do not! You must not speak the ill you fear!" His expression then gentled and he added, "Trust her friends, Darien. Trust the fortune that has carried her thus far."

Yet the anguish that shadowed Darien's eyes did not lessen, and Horus dragged a wooden chair over to sit beside him. Where words of comfort failed, perhaps the silent company of a friend might help.

Moments later the front door thudded and footsteps thumped in the hall. Alfgard appeared, growling in distaste as he shook the hem of a rain-sodden cloak.

"All quiet," he reported, and shrugged off the cloak. There he scowled about him while he tried to find a safe place to deposit the wet garment. "I doubled our lads on guard, and Tarannon's fellows are all on alert. Cullen is not a happy boy, but he is a well-guarded one."

Erin looked up, eyes wide. "You gave him the extra blankets, didn't you? And the pie and buttermilk and cold chicken?"

Alfgard cast a wry grin. "Aye, lass, he's had supper twice over, and he is snug as bug."

She tried to smile, even though her brow crimped in worry. "Well, then he should be safe and warm tonight. Margul is only one man, anyhow, and if Cullen just stays quiet -."

"Don't worry, lass," Alfgard said, as Linnet rose to relieve him of his wet cloak. "Unless Margul is bringing a battalion of crazed orcs and mad Haradrim - due respect, Master Horus - there is no way he is getting to anyone here. Not even that blasted orc, Odd-nuts or whatever you call him. Now I hope we've some mulled wine about, as I'm chilled through."

Letting Linnet shepherd him, still muttering, Alfgard stumped away towards the kitchen. He never made it.

The front door slammed with a heart-stopping crash, and one of the stable boys slid into view. Barely keeping his balance at his sudden halt, he stared wild-eyed through strings of wet hair.

"Master Alfgard!" he cried. "The barn is on fire! Come quick!"

xxx

Guttural curses greeted the shower released from overhanging boughs by an errant breeze.

"He could've left us the fire," grumbled Ursak, cradling his bandaged stump.

"Nar, by now all the tarks'll be searching for those two." A second orc picked absently at a bloody ear, before drawing a taloned hand over various seeping scratches. "Boss is looking out for us."

Ursak sneered, "Not what you said the other day, Trog, when you were sucking marrow out of lizard bones. He's not doing this for us. He's only interested in that miserable Odbut."

The third orc shook his head. "Don't hold with that, I don't. Maggot got himself caught, he ought to stay caught."

Gnawing absently on the cleanly picked rib bone of an unlucky rabbit, Trog retorted, "You're a right daft chuff if you think the boss has gone to fetch him back. He's gone to make sure the bloody fool don't spill his guts to the tarks. Boss don't have no use for lads who can't do their jobs." He stared pointedly at Ursak's stump. "Something other folks ought to keep to mind."

"You'll eat them words!" Ursak snarled.

"Make me," growled Trog, flinging his bone into the darkness.

"I don't have to do nothin' the boss doesn't say."

"Dunghill rat."

"Lizard eater!"

A quick, hard-knuckled exchange of blows ended swiftly, when maimed Ursak broke away and scurried out of reach.

Still tied and miserable beneath his own small tree, Lugbac hunched his shoulders as a thin trickle of rain found its way inside the collar of his tattered shirt. Though cold, the orc welcomed the snuffing out of the fire. Darkness made it easier for him to rub the ropes joining his hands against the rough bark of the tree without being noticed. Still, he felt disappointed that the argument between Ursak and Trog had ended without a real fight. If these orcs got busy fighting amongst themselves, they would almost forget their prisoners. The less notice orc guards took of their captives, the better off those captives would be.

Keeping his movements slow, Lugbac continued rasping the rope up and down. He would not need to wear completely through, only enough so that he might break the cord. The silver-eyed man had been right: living among the tarks for the past few years had made him soft. Once he would have snapped the necks of that rabble in an instant, but he had tried to be good, and Sev had been caught. Lugbac froze as anger made his movements jerky. No, no, he must be careful, very careful while Sev remained within their reach. Gubbitch said not to let Sev get hurt, and Lugbac intended to fix it so these lizard eaters would never have the chance to hurt her.

The old one who died had called him Sev's pet; but that was not true. A pet was like Gubbitch's enormous toad. Something you kept around because you liked it, even though it didn't have any use. He wasn't a pet; he was a friend. Erin the Hobbit said so, and she also said friends were people who helped each other. He helped Sev. He picked plants and carried things for her; and she taught him to remember things and traded the stones he found for blankets and food. When they got away from the silver-eyed man, he felt sure she would help him trade for a new shirt.

The orc curled his upper lip at the thought of their captor. The man was bad. He would hurt Sev like he hurt the red-haired one. The man liked to hurt. Lugbac could tell by the way the other orcs looked at the man out of the corner of their eyes. The man told lies too. He had said orcs did not need friends.

Careful not to shake the tree, Lugbac resumed his task. Soon, he would be free. Then he would take Sev and go back to the stables where a warm fire, hot food and their friends waited.

xxx

The stable hand's cry of fire drew instantaneous reaction. Alfgard wheeled and snatched his wet cloak out of his wife's hands, Nik leapt up and exclaimed, "The horses!" while Darien and Horus sprang from their chairs. The three men stormed for the door, Horus and Darien grabbing cloaks as they went, leaving Nik to bounce in anxious confusion as he turned to his Beorning friend.

"Teach, hurry! We have to help!" he cried.

"Aye." Russ rose to his full height, his movements filled with vast calm. "But there is no need to blunder about in mindless haste. Come, and stay close to me."

Russ' composure seemed the only coolness in the entire stable complex, once they got outside. Men rushed about shouting in spattering rain, doors slammed in the barracks across the yard, and the soldier guards milled in confusion, while ruddy light flickered angrily within the dark bulk of the barn where rightly no light should exist. Someone flung open the barn doors and a chaos of glowing, roiling smoke burst forth.

Alfgard jerked to a halt, wide-legged in the middle of the yard, and bellowed to the world at large, "How in all the wide earth did this happen?"

"We don't know, sir!" one of the boys cried, dashing past with a sloshing bucket of water.

"We were all inside for the evening!" shouted another man. "Nobody was in the barn!"

With a growl, Alfgard resumed stomping towards the smoke and fire. "If I find someone left a lantern burning …"

Yet in moments, all concerned realised this could not be an accident. The reek of spilt lamp oil underscored the stink of burning straw, and smoke-wrapped flames leapt from a half-dozen points at the rear of the barn.

Darien stopped abruptly and turned to jab a stiff finger into Horus' chest.

"You're in no shape to get into this muck." As Horus' mouth opened to protest, Darien's tone sharpened. "Stay back, arm yourself, and help keep the watch. If someone wants a diversion, they've hit on the perfect tactic. Go!"

With a sharp nod, Horus spun and dashed back to the house.

Meanwhile, inside the barn a stable hand jerked open the grain room door and a burst of flame belched over his head. He shrieked and threw himself aside, but not without the loss of his eyebrows. A piercing whinny shook the smoke-shrouded rafters, and was echoed thrice over.

"The horses!" shouted Nik. "Teach, come on!"

Half a dozen men plus Nik and the Beorning plunged into the chaos, bitter smoke raking their eyes and clogging their lungs as they scrambled to unlatch stall doors. Other men ran past to heave buckets of water towards the flames, but the choking smoke and heat of burning straw forbade any but the hardiest to get close. Horses whinnied and flung themselves blindly around their stalls, some kicking the walls in their terror and confusion. Those nearest the door bolted to freedom the instant their doors were opened, but further inside the barn, smoke and fear bedazzled the frightened creatures' senses. One man tried to drag a panicked horse out into the aisle, but the animal wrenched free and dove back into its stall.

Human voices added to the cacophony, crying out in command, anger, frustration. Then from the roiling smoke, a huge figure emerged, Russ laying one massive hand on a stable boy's shoulder and moving him aside. Fumes wreathed his great body as if he stepped from Mount Doom itself, but his movements were calm and deliberate. He stepped into the stall and spoke quietly, commandingly, and the horse halted to eye him in trembling fear. At his voice, the animal snorted and jerked its head up and down, almost as if nodding in comprehension.

When Russ backed away, the horse followed on nervously mincing hooves. The stable hands fell back as down the aisle the Beorning went, opening the next stall door and the next, each time speaking to the animals within. Although men continued their frantic race in and out of the barn with buckets of water, the horses filed forth in orderly fashion.

"Follow them," he said, and pointed to Alfgard's wide-eyed, soot-smeared twins. "They will take you to a safe place."

The boys gaped an instant more, then wheeled and fought their way through the smoke towards the door. They glanced back only once to see that the horses were indeed trotting quietly after them.

xxx

If Horus trusted in anything, he trusted in Darien's instincts. In other days, the Silverbrook lord had led them into danger and peril many times with never the loss of a man, at least not until the tragedy of the cave. That turned to disaster mainly because the cave-in sealed Darien away from trapped men when they most needed his leadership. In Horus' mind, the entire situation could have been averted; Grady's lapse in sanity, his attack on Sev, Landis' death and Nik's subsequent killing of Grady. If the men had listened to Darien, many things would have turned out differently.

But they had not, and fate marched on. Now Horus prowled cloaked and hooded in a black October rain, with the weight of his curved Southron sword hanging at his hip. Ill chance moved out there in the dark, even beyond the deliberate firing of a stable master's barn and the attendant risk to men and animals. He could feel it, and Darien had felt it.

While in the yard, men ran and shouted and hurled water on the flames, he slipped as a shadow among shadows and the rain pattered down. The soldiers detailed to help safeguard Alfgard's notable guests did the best they could. Keen-eyed and alert, they kept moving about the perimeter of the stable property, watching the dark, soaked lanes and houses beyond. But they were a visible presence and that could prove less a deterrent to mischief than they hoped. A foe that could be seen was a foe that could be evaded. So Horus made sure he became almost invisible.

And thus, when he passed around towards the rear of the barn, he spied the pale stone shape of the icehouse, its pallid expanse marred by the dark slit of a partially open wooden door. Here the captive orc, Odbut, remained imprisoned in an inner room, and here the man Margul might well have secret business. Horus dropped immediately to a crouch and scarcely breathed, trying to reach beyond sight and hearing. Bitter smoke tainted the air on his tongue and the tumult continued on the other side of the barn. Above the shouts of orders and warning, a brief thudding of hooves marked more horses freed to safety in the training field. From his own vantage point he could see fire flickering through the boards of the barn, but the fact it had not yet broken through the roof perhaps meant the battle went well.

Eyes on the icehouse, he sank lower and waited in perfect stillness. Two of the soldiers passed by and never saw him. Nor did they notice the icehouse door stood ajar. For a long moment nothing else moved. Slowly Horus eased his curved sword from its scabbard. Low and stealthy as a desert cat, he crept forward.

The door stood ajar, but within, he heard nothing. Cautiously he pushed the door further open. It creaked slightly. Listening, he still heard only hollow, empty silence. He knew then that Odbut was free – but to do what?

His breath caught sharply and he spun and ran light-footed around the barn – towards the smokehouse where Cullen had been housed.

xxx

No one noticed when Nik joined the lads in their efforts, picking up yet another group of horses as Russ sent them outside. Following the stable boys' lead, he jogged his little group of charges to the exercise field, and there let them gallop off into the clean, rain-scoured darkness of the paddock.

Nik grinned and watched them go before turning and running back to the barn to see what other good he could do. He had no inkling that unfriendly eyes observed from the smoke-thick shadows.

"Watch him," breathed a dim shape crouched in the dripping gloom. "The next time you see him alone, you finish him. Make no mistakes."

"I won't, boss," growled a misshapen silhouette.

The man's hand shot out to seize his comrade's ratty shirt. "Foul this up, Odbut, and I'll have your guts for garters. Hear me?"

"I got it." The orc nodded jerkily, flinching from the Morgul sheen of silvery-green eyes. "No mistakes."

"All right." Margul released him. "We'll take care of our other loose ends. When you're done, disappear. Let no one see you."

Odbut growled assent, then slunk off into the rain-dark night. Margul and the two remaining orcs crept the other way.

xxx

The smokehouse door remained locked, so Horus set himself deep into the shadows, downwind of the fire's reek, to keep watch. Perhaps this Margul would be content with reclaiming his orc, but the Haradrim's instincts insisted that much more lay at stake here. That instinct kept him silent when a hunched figure crawled between outbuildings then inched towards the smokehouse.

The creature gestured in silent excitement as he discovered the locked door. Then further shades appeared cautiously out of the night – a second orc and a man. Horus knew it must be Margul.

"Excellent, Grom," the thin shadow whispered, revealing a flash of teeth and pale eyes. "If my young friend is here, we can repay him and leave. Odbut will take care of the Uruk. With those problems out of the way, we can take our full measure of entertainment from our delightful guests back at camp then move on to pastures new."

Though his mind remained clouded by illness, Horus realised instantly what these words meant: a third orc lurked somewhere nearby. Nik was in immediate peril; this trio intended to kill Cullen; and Sev and Sira would suffer horrendously if Margul escaped tonight.

What to do? Horus struggled to find the precision of thought that had eluded him since agreeing to be 'ill'. If he confronted these enemies here and now to save Cullen, he would probably die in the attempt. Yet such a death would not serve its full purpose, if Nik remained elsewhere imperilled and unawares. Nik should be warned, but if Horus sneaked off to alert the others, Cullen would be dead before help arrived. Horus needed time - not a lot - but enough to cover two places at once and stay alive to alert the others.

It was the oldest trick of all, he mused wryly as he scooped up a handful of dirt. But enemies throughout the ages had recoiled from the scratching of a rat then paused and waited to be sure that it was no more than a rat.

xxx

At the gate of the paddock a chill, damp breeze gusted in a spray of unseen rain, but the air thus brought was sweet and clean. Nik coughed to clear the acrid smoke from his lungs and inhaled deeply. Heavy bodies jostled anxiously at his shoulder and a big muzzle blew warmly and shoved at his back.

"Be patient, now," he said and flung the gate open wide.

Nik grinned at the release of another pair of horses, which fled in a glad drumbeat of hooves into the haven of darkness. Between Teach's uncanny way with animals and the quick actions of all helping, the last of the horses was now safe, and the little orc had never felt more proud.

But his smile fell as an all too familiar smell reached his nostrils, and a shiver of ice shot down his spine. He spun in time to see the blade coming towards him.

xxx

In a quick motion Horus flung his handful of dirt and pebbles to rattle upon the path beside the smokehouse. Instantly the shadowy figures of Margul and the two orcs crouched and froze in place. He waited. They waited. The Haradrim grimly smiled. So, these thought their resolve a match for his, did they? The breeze still blew from them to him, carrying his human scent away from the orcs.

Stealthily he scooped up more pebbles, and watched until the pale oval of the man's face, yonder, turned to look the other way. The second handful he threw harder, and shrank almost flat against the muddy earth when they spattered in the darkness beyond the little building. Horus looked on as the orcs flinched and sprang upright, blades glinting dully in their hands. More calmly Margul eased back from the smokehouse, hissing a low command that drew the orcs after him.

Horus averted his eyes and lay, belly-down in the muck. 'Think like a rock', Evan or Neal might have said, and this he did, in the perfect stillness of a Haradrim warrior. Even without looking, for a direct gaze might draw their attention, he knew the orcs scanned the shadows with their preternatural night vision. Thus Horus remained prostrate with mud soaking through his clothing from beneath and rain pattering from above, and barely breathed.

xxx

Nik had fought, oh yes; he had fought, for survival or meat or a chunk of bread in those bleak, hopeless days Before – before Teach, before a warm hearth and a barn full of sweet hay and kindly dogs to lay at his feet in the evenings. And Nik fought now, tooth and claw, elbow and knee, rolling over and over in the muck and the rain whilst the rank odour from his attacker's thrashing body assailed his senses.

The other outweighed him by two stone or more, hard muscle and brutally tough sinew that bore him down and struck with bludgeoning effect. But Nik was strong and he surged into his foe with desperate fury. Black blood soured his tongue as he bit down on cloth and flesh, a foul-breathed snarl blasting his face when they rolled over again, and always he wrenched that jagged blade away from himself. Death trembled at the end of that sinewy arm, rusted steel jamming into the dirt beside his shoulder as he flung his wiry strength hard into the other orc.

Nik had fought, he still knew how to fight, but one dreadful question remained: would he be strong or clever enough this time to win?

xxx

On the other side of the barn Horus heard continued activity, shouts of encouragement and direction. Closer at hand he perceived fainter sounds, the scrape of soft footsteps in wet earth, a brief, muttered rasping of voices, one human, two orcish. He lifted his head and from his badger's-eye view he saw Margul and his two minions lifting into a crouch and moving toward the rear of the smokehouse. Silently Horus picked more pebbles out of the muck, and then rose just enough to hurl them with all his strength – this time to clatter in autumn debris behind the unsavoury trio.

The orcs sprang forward and wheeled in opposing directions, weapons ready.

"Something's out there, boss!" one of them hissed.

"Stand fast, fools!" spat Margul, although the pallid gleam of his face shifted to and fro in the rainy darkness. "It's nothing but -."

Horus' fingers found three egg-sized stones and he rose up, threw them with all his strength and was rewarded with the triple-whack of stones hitting wood. The orcs leapt off the ground and reversed their directions – and Horus let out a scream that pierced ears for half a mile around. Up from the muck he sprang, and still screeching the terrible Haradrim war cry he charged, curved Southron sword flashing in the rain.

xxx

One of Alfgard's twins stumbled across the yard with the burden of two buckets of water, his wiry form gallantly bending to the effort even as a burst of hacking coughs shook him. A pair of enormous hands reached down and plucked the buckets from his grip.

"Go sit down, boy," Russ rumbled. "You have done enough."

The lad looked up, his wide eyes two gleaming holes in a face masked with soot. He coughed again and rubbed a grimy hand under his nose.

"Thank you, sir."

Russ, however, did not wait on the lad's thanks but strode into the cloudy darkness inside the barn. Of some relief was the fact that as smoke increased, the flames sputtered out. The fire fighting efforts of all were paying off, though Russ imagined Alfgard would have considerable cleaning up to do. Seeming impervious to the fumes, the Beorning walked through the miasma and heaved both buckets as if emptying teacups; another angrily glowing set of embers hissed to steamy dimness.

Turning stoically, he paced back outside, and only then exhaled the great breath he had held all that time. Truth to tell, the smoke was as hard on him as anybody, but a man after all had to keep up appearances.

Thereupon he promptly gagged on a chest-full of gunk, dropped both buckets, and bent with both hands on his knees to cough himself dizzy. While he tried his best to hack up a lung, someone helpfully decided to thump his broad back, and between choking gasps he wondered what fool ever thought beating a man would help him breathe. He decided as soon as he got some air, he would tell whoever it was what he thought about it.

"Take care, Master Russ," said Lord Darien's voice, evidently the owner of the offending fist. "You've done noble service, but we'd not want you dead from the effort. You and Nik make quite a team."

In the absence of any proper response, Russ hacked and spat black stuff and coughed once more. Then he straightened and drew a deep, cleansing breath of air. That breath stopped sharp as a crazed scream ripped from the darkness.

"NIK!" Russ shouted in a blast of sound that overrode a second hellish scream.

Someone was out there and Nik was nowhere in sight and Something Was Terribly Wrong. In one bound, Russ moved at a dead run, something nobody in that yard had ever seen a nine-foot tall bear-man do.

xxx

The pair of orcs flew from Horus' shrieking charge as if shot from a catapult, but Margul proved of another bolt of cloth. With a scarcely human snarl, Margul swept a sword from its scabbard and lunged savage as a lynx; steel slashing in a deadly cut that Horus only barely warded. Blade struck blade with numbing force then bound together and twisted free, Horus flowing into the dance of the sword by sheer instinct. Yet in three strokes he realised he had ill-chosen his match, for illness weakened him and Margul hammered into the attack with ruthless fury.

Back Horus stepped, and warded and struck and backed again – and then broke away to seize another handful of wet earth. Only a swift overhead ward deflected Margul's down stroke, and Horus flung the dirt towards his opponent's face. Margul yowled in fury but by now a cacophony of voices battered about the stable yard, and with a final curse, the man spun about and ran after his two now-vanished orc allies. Weaving, Horus braced himself straddle-legged with his sword as a cane, and silently blessed fortune that he still breathed.

xxx

Russ saw it all between one pounding leap and the next - Nik and a strange orc tumbling locked in mortal combat in the dark, trampled muck before the paddock gate. The dull flash of a rusty blade, the snarl of jagged teeth - he saw, and answered with a roaring bellow of his own. The yards between passed beneath his mighty pace like miles, but then he was upon them.

A distant corner of his mind noted and dismissed the fact it was Odbut, last seen as a prisoner in Alfgard's icehouse. The huge man never even broke stride. One great hand smote like a bear's paw, clubbing the enemy orc into the air and slamming it into the gatepost. In the next leap, Russ seized the creature in both hands and, roaring, he hurled it headlong to soar with arms and legs thrashing until it collided with solid ground. A single mighty step put him on the creature, where it scrambled desperately but far, far too slow. He slammed both hands into ragged cloth, and heaved it off the ground and airborne once more. Odbut yowled like a scalded cat ere slamming to earth again. This time the orc did not try to go anywhere. Instead, Odbut lay gasping for air that did not seem to come, while several sets of shoes and boots arranged themselves around the orc's prostrate form and torchlight flickered above.

Growling deep in his chest, Russ stormed towards them, fists clenching and unclenching, his jaw clamped under his dark beard. He had fought too many of this creature's kind to feel the least remorse or pity; Sauron's minion it had been and in its heart, so it remained. For willingly acting as the tool of evil, the orc would die.

Or so he planned. The plan did not quite work out.

"Neat bit o' work, Russ," said a gruff voice, which belonged to one of the pairs of shoes surrounding the orc.

Russ halted and lifted his murderous gaze. Gubbitch's homely features twisted into something resembling a wry grin.

The old orc added, "While we take care of this un', tha might want to check Nik is in one piece."

Like a gust of wind through a window, alarm swept anger back, and Russ wheeled about. Nik still sat on the ground in the rain and dark, coughing gently as he fingered his throat. Anxiety clenched in his great fists, Russ moved hesitantly closer.

"Nik? Are you hurt?"

The little Uruk looked up, and for an instant torchlight painted his rough features and gleaming eyes in a fey, grim cast.

But then he flexed one hand and looked at his waggling fingers, and said, "No, unless you count almost breaking my knuckles on his head."

The sigh Russ heaved seemed to come all the way from his enormous feet, and when it blew out, his great shoulders bowed.

However, all he said was, "Get up, Nik. You'll catch your death sitting in the mud."

Nik scrambled up and tried ineffectively to brush off the seat of his trousers. "Well, at least he didn't escape." He glanced at Alfgard, Gubbitch, Darien, several soldiers and assorted Rohirrim stable hands who stared back at him. "That would have messed things up, wouldn't it?"

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose while the others grinned and shook their heads. "Nik," he said, "you could have been killed. Don't … just try to be more careful, won't you?"

The runty Uruk beamed a rueful grin. "Oh, of course I will, Teach! Now I've got to wash this whole suit of clothes."

Before Russ had to think of a response to that, another figure appeared in the torchlight – Horus, who if anything looked even muddier and more ill-used than Nik.

"Horus!" exclaimed Darien, and started forward only to catch and stop himself. He frowned and rearranged his response to say, "What happened to staying back and keeping an eye on things? Don't tell me you found another orc."

Horus shrugged and white teeth glinted in the flickering light. "Actually, I found two. I tried to stay back, but I saw Margul and two of his orcs attempting to break in and assassinate Cullen."

"That confounded -." Alfgard exploded, and flung both hands downward in furious exasperation. "I knew this wretch couldn't escape on his own. Where did you see Margul? Where did he go? Is he dead?"

Horus halted and replied, "By the smokehouse. That way. And no."

"That does it - we're finding that snake if it takes us until midnight tomorrow!" Alfgard wheeled then jerked to a halt, scowling almost nose to nose with Gubbitch. "You fellows can see in the dark, can't you?"

Gubbitch cocked his misshapen head, eyes bright. "Ah reckon."

"Good. I'm getting a sword."

"Sevi!" Nik gasped, his eyes suddenly wide. "He must be going back to Sevi - Anardil and Halbarad missed him. We have to find Margul before he gets back to her!"

"Don't you think I know that?" Alfgard growled, and grimaced at his own gracelessness. "If you and Master Russ will help, I'll be glad for it. Meanwhile, someone go check on Cullen, pat him on the head and make sure the little fool is whole. And lock this filth up!"

Alfgard shot the cringing Odbut a venomous glare, and stormed off into the drizzling dark, shouldering through a gathering crush of well-smoked stable hands and befuddled Gondorian guards. Several of the men seized Odbut and dragged him off, writhing, snarling and trying to bite their hands, though evidently too battered and winded to put up any real fight.

In their wake, Darien eyed Horus critically and reached out to flick the ragged tear in his friend's shirt.

"Next time perhaps you will watch a little less zealously, hm?"

Horus smiled apologetically and took the torch from Darien's free hand. "I could not let them murder a boy, even a very foolish one."

"No," Darien sighed. "I suppose not. And I suppose I can't ask you to stay here and recover your strength, whilst we follow them?"

In answer, Horus merely eyed his friend patiently. Darien shook his head.

"Come, you'll need dry clothes - this will be a long night."

xxx

TBC …


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Grim men moved in the wet darkness, silent in their passage as only Rangers could be. They knew these woods, these shaded trails at the foot of the Ephel Dúath, and this night's work carried bleak reminder of the perils they faced not long ago, when Mordor's foul minions breached the borderlands of Gondor.

Before them went a ghostlike figure, Celebsul the elf, now the only eyes the company had that could pierce the inky veil of night. The Rangers themselves saw only shadows, and strained beyond hearing for whatever secrets the blackness held.

Several yards behind Celebsul, Anardil willed his mind to clarity and his heart to calm, focusing on the task at hand. Nonetheless, fear continued to clamp a small, tight fist in his belly, and he sought cold comfort in the familiar toil of the hunt.

A twig cracked in the dark woods and everyone went motionless. Nothing but the whisper of a breeze in bare limbs and a tapping of water from dead leaves broke the stillness. A moment more, and Anardil wryly reflected that the noise had probably been the unfortunate Ted, trying with mixed results to mimic the efforts of his Ranger companions.

More soberly, however, Anardil reckoned that Ted shared much the same fears for Sira as he did for Sev. Resolutely he shoved the thought aside and the hunters continued onward.

xxx

Clouds smeared the sky, hiding most of the hateful stars, but Margul's eyes were the twin moons that lit Grom's night. Each time either of the orcs looked back, those silver-green orbs flashed anger.

"Concentrate on the way forward, both of you. Stop worrying about pursuit. Men cannot see in the dark as you do. So make the most of our advantage. MOVE!"

The master's fury singed Grom's nerves. Far better the cold, logical man who planned carefully than this seething volcano. The sword remained unsheathed in Margul's hand, and Grom knew it would not be set aside until the steel had tasted blood - no matter what colour that blood might be.

If the enemy did give chase, the orc feared none of those men as much as he feared this one. Fixing his concentration on the grey details of the path ahead, Grom obeyed his master. Get Margul to his camp as quickly as possible. Let him leech his frustration on someone other than Grom.

xxx

The cloth bound about Sira's mouth prevented all but a high-pitched moan when she felt an orc's rough nails seize her ankle.

"Here now," growled a voice from the darkness, "you heard the boss. No fun and games until he comes back."

"Shut up, Trog. Ain't plannin' nothing fun. Just keepin' her warm," Ursak replied, and roughly dragged the girl toward him with his remaining hand. "Wouldn't want the soft little tark to freeze to death."

Crawling from his knees to his feet, Trog left the hollow he had scraped out on the lee side of a large boulder. He appeared as but a hulking shape as he snarled, "Not cold enough for even a tark to freeze. Boss said to leave them be unless they cause trouble."

"Who's to say she didn't?" Ursak replied with a sharp-toothed grin. He transferred his hold to the girl's waist and lifted her, kicking and squealing behind her gag, across his lap. "She's trying to get away now, ain't she?"

As she thrashed desperately against the orc's tightening hold, Sira's stifled shrieks reached nearly the pitch of a pinioned rabbit. Trog hunched his gnarled shoulders and nodded appreciatively.

"For a maggot, you get some right good ideas. But this one's mine. You take the other one."

Trog grabbed Sira's arm and jerked her out of Ursak's one-handed hold and onto her feet. The girl slammed against his torso, then yanked back with a mewling sound and twisted her face to avoid his foul-breathed, leering grin.

"My idea!" Ursak leaped up and attempted to pull Sira away. "Only right, I should get the young one. You take the round one."

Trog backhanded Ursak and tossed Sira down in a tangle of skirts and limbs beside Sev. Chucking the redhead under the chin as she squeaked and tried to scrabble backwards from him, the orc's chortle sounded like a handful of stones in a bucket.

His broken teeth glinted in the darkness and he growled, "You and me are goin' to have a right fun time after I settle this _snaga_."

In one fluid motion, Trog pulled a knife from his belt and whipped about to slash the approaching Ursak across the middle; but Ursak swerved away at the last second, his own knife drawing a trail of black blood down Trog's arm. A guttural howl of fury was echoed by an animalistic snarl as the orcs flung themselves at each other in mindless rage. Sev and Sira both squirmed further back to cower against tumbled logs while the deadly confusion of silhouettes danced before them. A cackling laugh marked the third guard's retreat to the top of a nearby boulder where he watched with yellow-eyed delight. Back and forth the snarling, thrashing battle went until a spray of hot, black blood signalled the end of Ursak. Trog rose slowly and kicked the dying orc, then tipped his head back to howl triumphantly.

But his cry of victory ended in a strangled gurgle for, as the blood-splattered women watched, two massive, shadowy hands wrapped themselves about Trog's neck and squeezed. Sira moaned when the orc was lifted up to dangle, legs kicking frantically, six inches off the ground. After the final wheezing gasp ended, the orc's body was discarded with a satisfied grunt.

Sev swallowed as Trog's killer pulled the bloody knife from the orc's dead fist and lumbered over to stand before her. An insuppressible shudder wracked her body as hard steel traced a brief line along her jaw. With a sudden jerk, the gag was cut.

"Thank you, Lugbac," the Rohirrim woman whispered raspily when the cloth was removed.

"They were bad," the orc said and sliced the ropes binding her hands and feet. Then he flipped the knife to offer it to her handle first.

With a shake of her head, Sev refused. "You keep it for a while. I'll find another. Where's our other friend?"

The huge orc looked about in confusion. "Friend?"

"The other orc," explained Sev, pausing in the midst of untying Sira's gag.

"Not a friend," declared Lugbac, consternation shading his voice.

"No, you're right. He wasn't. What did you do with him?"

Lugbac nodded toward the tree where he had been tied. Sev gulped as she realised what the two lumpy shadows at its base actually were.

"I had to. He was bad. Like the others. Like the man." The orc lowered his head. "I tried to be good, but they wanted to hurt. Gubbitch will be mad at me."

"No, Lugbac. He won't. He will be very proud of you for saving us." Sev sighed and, at Sira's impatient wiggle and muffled squeak of indignation, returned to the task of releasing the girl. "Though I can think of one or two people who won't be too happy with me."

Crouching on his haunches beside them, the orc nodded solemnly. "The Ranger mans will holler at you."

"Without a doubt. All three of them, then Alfgard will take a turn and Erin; and Cel will finish it all off with that blasted eyebrow of his."

A large hand patted her knee in sympathy. "Poor Sev."

Undoing the gag's knot at last, Sev took the cloth from Sira's mouth then motioned to the bodies of the dead orcs.

"Not poor at all, Lugbac. Lucky, incredibly lucky. As is Sira here, this makes the second time she escaped."

"And I would prefer not to have to do it again," the bedraggled barmaid exclaimed, holding out her hands. "So if you two are finished chatting could you cut me loose so we can get out of here?"

"An excellent suggestion," Sev replied briskly. "Lug, cut her free, while I find myself a knife." Standing, she surveyed the scene. "This place must look like a battlefield even from a distance. Maybe we should spend a little time to buy more time …"

Swiftly they armed themselves and arranged the bodies to look as if they were sleeping. Thereafter, the trio headed downhill, and the rain began to fall once more.

xxx

Black ranks of barren trees and snares of thickets seemed all the night would reveal. Anardil inwardly cursed the returning rain, for its whispering rush made a blanket of white sound that could conceal too many things. Last spring Margul had commanded enough orcs to ambush Sev and her companions on the road almost within view of Henneth Annûn. Although those orcs were slain in the attempt, neither Anardil nor the other Rangers dared presume anything but the worst, now. And the worst could be that Margul kept enough of his savage minions lurking out here in the wilderness to do real damage. After all, who was to say that the fugitive merchant did not have further, unimaginable plans brewing?

In Anardil's estimation, a man who violently opposed any legal considerations for orcs but freely used them for his own nefarious schemes was capable of anything. For all Anardil knew, Margul might have designs on the Crown and others in power who dared treat orcs as anything other than mindless beasts. The irony of the matter lay in that certain orcs made highly efficient assassins, whom Margul would consider disposable when finished or if caught.

Again, he shook himself from his brooding and refocused on his task. Follow Celebsul – wherever the elf had got off to again – and pray they found Sev and Sira before either Margul or the miserable weather did irreparable harm.

Several minutes later, he flinched as Celebsul's pale form appeared soundlessly beside him. In a bare whisper, the elf said, "I taste cold campfire smoke on the air. We are not far."

Not far, in elf reckoning could be anywhere from a hundred yards to two miles. But Anardil nodded and Celebsul faded off amongst the dark woods to inform the others. Moments later, Anardil heard the sound of a stream gurgling strongly. Meanwhile the whisper of the rain slackened and a faint lightening suggested the clouds were moving. Halbarad eased beside him, touched his shoulder and pointed ahead. Without a word, Anardil followed.

xxx

For an old, wizened orc, Gubbitch moved with surprising speed. Scurrying at his side, Nik occasionally pointed out hazards in the dark surroundings that eluded the eyes of men. Darien found it a difficult pace to keep up with, especially after tripping over stones and roots hidden in deepest shadow. At least his stumbles served as warning to Horus and Alfgard who followed behind.

After the Silverbrook Lord stepped into a deep puddle and almost fell into Russ' back, the Beorning took to growling quiet cautions each time he passed an obstacle along the route. Darien appreciated this, though he decided not to comment; the signals were more likely motivated by a desire for speed rather than concern for his well-being.

The group paused for bearings from time-to-time. Alfgard overtook Darien and Russ at one point to ask the orcs how far ahead their quarry might be.

"Not that far." Gubbitch's whisper sounded like rumpled parchment. "Easy to tell with footprints on wet muck. I'll show thee how when we've gotten these chuffs. Might be an idea to have us weapons at hand. Hunted been known to turn into hunters afore now."

Alfgard nodded and drew his sword. The rest did likewise before resuming the chase.

xxx

Sev threw back her hood and peered into the darkness. Though the branches continued to drip, the rain had ceased for the moment. Maybe now she could find that blasted stream. Drat Sira for tripping over her own feet and twisting an ankle. To be recaptured because of the girl's clumsiness would be the ultimate ignominy - though the certainty of having riled Margul enough to earn clean deaths might be counted a blessing. Her goal, however, was now life, not death.

"Where did the _nmad_ thing go?" she muttered.

Sira _oomphed_ as Lugbac dropped her heavily to the ground at Sev's side.

"Wait," he grunted. "I'll be back."

When the dark shadow of the orc vanished into the forest, Sev eased gratefully to a crouch. In constant motion since leaving Margul's hospitality, they had added many unnecessary steps due to her poor guidance. Given his exceptional ability to see in the dark, Lugbac started by leading the group. In an effort to avoid meeting a returning Margul, they shunned the obvious choice of following the stream, and headed downhill through the woods. A decision gone awry with Sira's fall. Walking on a slippery slope in the dark over unfamiliar territory while carrying Sira proved more than the orc could handle.

Sev had taken the lead and tried to follow the easiest terrain for the burdened orc, but she soon managed to become hopelessly lost. Realising that stumbling about in the black night placed them at an even worse disadvantage than running headlong into their former captor, they subsequently decided to return to the stream. Only now, she appeared to have mislaid that, too.

"Anardil would be properly ashamed," she murmured.

Beside her, the barmaid sighed and shoved her matted hair out of her eyes. "Ted won't be too happy, either."

Sira's words drew a quiet snort from the older woman. "Should we wait here until morning? By then they might be so worried they'll forget to be angry."

"Not a chance."

Sira gasped at the quiet voice from the hill above them, while Sev pivoted, sword in hand, to greet the speaker. Her next breath burst forth in a huff of exasperation.

"_Nmad_, you have to stop doing that. You're liable to get skewered one of these days."

She placed a reassuring hand on Sira's shoulder and tilted her head back as the cloaked figure slid downhill to stand over them. Even though she could not yet see his features, she knew the look on his face.

"Don't glare at me that way; I did manage to escape before you found me. Next time, maybe I'll get home on my own."

More shadows appeared on the hill above, and a low chuckle revealed Halbarad's presence. Anardil rolled his eyes and reached out his hand to lift Sev to her feet.

Emphasising each word carefully, he said, "There will be no next time."

From behind him, Tarannon muttered, "I'll wager a month's salary there is."

Sev bristled and exclaimed, "It's not like I do it on purpose."

Tarannon wisely refrained from commenting, though Hal laughed. "Accept it, Sev, you simply attract trouble."

The shrubbery beyond the two captains parted to reveal Ted's bespattered form. With a cry of "_Sira!_" the young man escaped Celebsul's steadying arm and careened down the hill to kneel beside the barmaid. Grasping her hand, he burst into an eloquent recitation of the horrifying thoughts which had plagued him throughout the search, and his joy at being reunited.

Sev gaped open-mouthed at the barmaid's elaborate protestations of delight. In faint starlight from between shifting clouds, she marvelled at how Sira miraculously appeared dainty and ladylike, in spite of blossoming bruises, a skirt shredded by thorn bushes and dark splotches of orc blood standing out against the paleness of her tattered bodice.

Unnecessarily, Anardil muttered, "Sira's beau." Then he continued, "We found the camp. Was that your handiwork?"

Scarcely able to take her eyes from the adoring couple, Sev replied absently, "No, Lugbac's. He broke free and killed two."

"And the third?" Hal stepped forward and blocked her view.

With a wry twist of her lips, Sev answered, "Killed in a fight over Sira. She was more to their taste."

"I suspect it was a case of them wishing to retain possession of all their vital organs," Anardil replied solemnly.

Sev narrowed her eyes and frowned, then snorted a laugh at her own foolishness. "I'll try to take their standoffishness as a compliment. Besides, their little tussle allowed Lugbac to break free."

"Where is Lugbac?" asked Celebsul gently.

Sev pointed into the woods. "Scouting the trail. I seem to have lost it."

Anardil glanced over her head at the elf, who nodded and disappeared in the direction indicated. Other whispers of movement indicated Tarannon's men spread out as a shielding screen against any foe lurking in the dark.

After sneaking another glance at Sira, who sat with her head on Ted's shoulder sniffing delicately, Sev began a precise report of all that had occurred during the past three hours. She noted especially Margul's references about how she had caused a great deal of inconvenience to one of his most valued clients.

"I haven't the vaguest idea to what he's referring," protested Sev. "I never saw the man before today. I've conducted no business with him. Then too, there's the comment he made about his 'professional' objective and how you being out here searching for me left the field wide open for him to deal with his problem. My thought was he meant to go after Nik."

The men exchanged glances, and Tarannon said, "Our own conclusion was that he must be focused upon locating Cullen and the orc, Odbut. We sent a messenger to Master Alfgard."

"Yes, that was what he called his 'personal' objective. He slapped Sira around trying to get that information, but I figured it wasn't worth suffering over. The pair of them are well guarded; so even if the man goes to the stables, how would he succeed in reaching them?"

"Not to cast aspersions upon your kin, Sev, but I hesitate to underestimate the man." Halbarad sighed. "He's linked to too many plots to write him off as incompetent."

"No, I would hardly call him incompetent." Sev regarded the sword she had carried with her from Margul's camp; there remained one sad task that she must accomplish. She looked from one tall man to the next and said in a low voice, "We must go back for Raberlon's body."

Halbarad nodded. "It will be done, Sevi, with all due courtesy; but you do not need to do it. Let us send you back to the village first."

"No!" exclaimed Sev and Anardil at the same instant.

"It is my responsibility to see that Raberlon suffers no more indignities," Sev declared stiffly. "My duty as a member of the family to which he swore loyalty."

Anardil declined to state his objections, but the Ranger captains could guess their friend had no intention of allowing Sevilodorf out of his sight. Arguing with the stubborn couple would obviously be a waste of time.

"Very well," Tarannon said.

With that, he began to organise the group returning to the village, sorting who would go and who would remain to hunt for Margul. The task was simplified by the reappearance of Celebsul with Lugbac, and the orc's agreement to carry the injured Sira the remaining distance to Henneth Annûn.

Lugbac grunted, "If Sev does not lead, will not take long."

Sev shook her finger at the orc when he grinned, then she reached out to touch the makeshift bandage on his upper arm. "Let Linnet or Erin wash all your wounds. Especially the bites."

The orc drew back; his face screwed up with distaste. "Will it hurt?"

"Honestly," Sev exclaimed to the sky, "what is it about males? They will suffer gouges, rips and bone breaking injuries without a single whimper, but when you try to heal them, all they do is whine."

"I'll see that he is tended to properly, Sevilodorf," Tarannon reassured her. "And Sira as well."

Ted stood and carefully helped Sira to her feet. When she stood in the circle of his arm, the young man looked at the assembled company and spoke in unsteady tones.

"I never dreamed I would say this to … to one of you." His gaze settled on Lugbac. "But thank you."

The big orc bobbed his ugly head. "I did good?"

Halbarad clapped his beefy shoulder. "Yes, Lug, you did good."

A gurgling sound may have been Lugbac chuckling delightedly. "Then maybe Gubbitch not get angry. Should I carry hurt lady now?"

Sira edged uncertainly forwards, encouraged by Ted's gentle shove. Gathering Ted's cloak about her slim shoulders, she said, "Yes. You may carry hurt lady now."

The huge orc scooped her up and settled her carefully against his chest, as if he cradled a wounded lamb. Then with Ted close beside, they followed Tarannon and a number of his men into the darkness.

After the homeward group vanished, Halbarad spoke to the remaining Rangers. "Find the two men Tarannon sent on the southern trail and meet us at the rocky outcropping below Margul's camp."

Watching the Rangers melt away into shadow, Celebsul murmured, "Perhaps the fox has met the fate he deserves by thinking a lions' den is a chicken coop."

Anardil nodded. "Aye. It is to be hoped that those at Alfgard's were able to capture him. But better safe than sorry."

"Please," Sev agreed with a shudder at the memory of Margul's finger tracing her jaw. "I have no desire to expand my acquaintanceship with the man. Least of all in the way he insinuated."

"Another reason for the orcs to prefer Sira, my dear. You were marked for better company."

The glacial tone revealed the emotions behind his words. Sev shivered again to think of Anardil coming anywhere near the repulsive Margul.

Sternly, she said, "Better safe than sorry means you will wait for the others before we go back into that camp."

"Yes, love, but the man is mine." Anardil took her hand and drew her close. "He is responsible for twice endangering that which I hold more dear than my own life. The debt is now due and payable in full."

Any envy Sev felt at Ted's outpourings vanished in that instant, and she reached up to touch his shadowed face.

"To both of us," she replied.

In Anardil's heart whispered the echoes of Sev's refusing the honor of riding at his right hand, and declaring her place to be at his left where he might have need for shield or sword. A true daughter of Rohan was his lady.

"So be it, my love, we shall share this dish of vengeance."

Halbarad and Celebsul exchanged glances; they stood witness to understandings of which they were no part. Silently they turned and, with Sev and Anardil following, began to make their way back towards Margul's hidden camp.

xxx

The volcano erupted just as Grom feared. Margul halted suddenly and hissed a stream of oaths. Then his naked blade flashed swiftly in the faint starlight, hacking off the limb of a luckless sapling. One by one, the small tree's branches fell beneath savage blows punctuated by threats and names: "Cullen", "I'll kill them all", "Harad scum".

Cringing, the two orcs watched their master vent his spleen, hoping the arboreal demolition would be sufficient to appease his bloodlust until they reached the camp. Neither dared interrupt the man's frenzy to point out the risks of delay. In fact, Grom reflected, if enemies appeared at this moment, Margul would probably chop them all into little pieces without pausing for breath.

Eventually, nothing remained of the sapling but a pile of leafy debris and the sharp green scent of fresh sap. Margul kicked the wreckage a few times before glaring at the orcs.

"MOVE!"

They didn't need telling twice. Both set off along the shadowy path again as quickly as they could.

xxx

Times had changed, indeed, when a Beorning followed an orc to hunt an orc. Yet in this rain-dark night Russ saw a new side of Nik, a stolid little hunter who hesitated not nor fumbled ever in his quest to save an imperilled friend. If Men wished to see Right when it was done before their eyes, they should see the gnarled old orc and the runty Uruk-hai coursing sure and silent as hounds through the black, dripping forest.

Russ himself moved with a softness of tread few would expect of a man as huge as he. But he, too, knew the grim pathways of war and, while he stepped over wet roots and between looming boles of trees, he remembered with grim discomfort the bleak years when Shadow encroached upon the Misty Mountains.

However, he did not allow such thoughts to distract his mind beyond the fleeting awareness of them. The night held its secrets but it told secrets also, to those with the senses to discern them. Thus he smelt the brisk greenness of new-cut wood almost as soon as Nik and Gubbitch, and he watched Nik crouch to briefly examine a tangle of small limbs.

"Someone just did this," the little Uruk whispered. "We're close."

As he passed, Russ glanced down to see the peeled whiteness of tormented branches amongst wet forest debris. Dourly he reflected that one thing never changed; those of evil heart delighted in destruction of all kinds.

On they toiled and uphill, but not far before another scent wafted on the breeze: the faint cold tang of a doused campfire. Judging by the tartness of the odour, Russ reckoned the fire had burned earlier this very night, perhaps whilst someone prepared a soggy supper, but then it was put out.

Gubbitch bobbed through the dripping thickets, bent and soundless, and whispered a grave warning to Alfgard, Darien and Horus. Without a word of reply, the three men spread out, until the group moved in a thin line, like grim harvesters through the forest.

xxx

Scrambling up the incline to the rocky outcropping which served as the landmark for their meeting with Tarannon's men, Sev muttered a curse when the branch she grasped proved spiked with thorns. Another item to add to Margul's bill, she thought sucking at her stinging fingers - though not the one of greatest consequence.

Her hand dropped to the sword at her hip, and her throat tightened. But there was no time yet for mourning Raberlon, and she would not disgrace the memory of his loyalty with tears. Drawing a deep breath, she climbed the last few steps and stood shivering in the wind that whipped about this barren slab of granite.

"Come, Sevi."

Anardil led her to the lee of a large boulder, and together they sat quietly watching the adamant stars wink between the tattered shreds of the storm clouds drifting north.

Finally, Sev leaned against his shoulder and whispered, "I should have …"

Firm fingers stilled her lips. "The night is not yet over. Wait until morning to count up the regrets."

She nodded at his wisdom and retreated into silence. The mournful muttering of the wind in the trees became ghostly voices from her past: family, friends and enemies, whom she had watched die. So many; too many. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands against her ears to block out the sound.

A strong arm gathered her close, and a soothing voice began to murmur against her temple.

Gradually the panic retreated. She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. Anardil eased his hold upon her and kissed her forehead.

"Better now, love?" At her nod, he said, "As Halbarad suggested, you do not have to do this. If you wish, we will go back to the village now."

"No. It is my duty, and as we've come this far, let's get it over with. Just promise me you won't face him alone. We do it together."

"Agreed. Here are Tarannon's men now. Let's go catch ourselves a fox."

"With luck, and if he is not already caught, we will arrive before he does and can lay a trap," said Halbarad from out of the darkness.

Celebsul stepped forward. "A man and two orcs, at most, unless he has released Odbut or found reinforcements. Yet a fox in a snare still has his teeth. Anardil, I know you justly seek revenge, yet I beg you and Sev to let others still those jaws …"

He did not finish his plea; silver hair flowed with the turn of his head as elven hearing detected sounds that evaded the others.

xxx

As the trio topped the ridge, a tiny crescent of the waning moon peeped through scudding cloud, lending enough light for a glimpse of the sleeping camp nestled in the shallow dip. Then darkness fell again.

"Not even a guard." Margul's quiet voice dripped with cold disgust. "Get down there and kick them awake, Grom … Grom?"

But Grom's nose twitched and he crouched with one clawed hand grasping his blade. "Blood!" he hissed.

"Aye," agreed the other orc.

Silver-green glinted like ice in the gloom. "Can you smell the colour of that blood?"

Grom looked at his master, wondering at the pathetic perceptions of Men. "No, Boss. All blood smells the same. All death smells the same."

In that moment, the wind veered and Grom hissed again. "Enemies! Nearby!"

"Get them!" Margul commanded, his sap-stained sword mirroring the hue of his eyes, the threat of his eyes.

Both orcs responded in the only manner they knew. When battle calls - go berserk.

xxx

The hunt ended with a yowl and blast of fury that burst from the dark - an all-too-familiar sound, to Russ the Beorning. As he spun to face the threat, Gubbitch sprang in a crooked leap far swifter than it seemed, colliding full-force with a snarling shape ere it landed on Darien's unsuspecting back. Alfgard roared his anger when a second form hurtled from the shadows, and Rohirrim blade screeched on rusty orcish steel. The onslaught drove Alfgard backwards to trip on an unseen root - but as he fell, Russ' great fist slammed into hard muscle and his powerful fingers clamped in sinew and bone. Roaring he flung the orc cartwheeling into black shrubbery, where Horus rose up in a flash of steel. The struggle on that quarter abruptly went silent. Gubbitch's foe broke free and bounded crashing into the brush, but the old orc snarled and leapt after.

"Darien!" Horus cried in sudden alarm.

The Silverbrook lord had plunged ahead and out of sight. Russ turned with wrath simmering in his chest anew, for Nik, brave, foolish Nik, scrambled off hard on Darien's heels. A growl of frustration rumbled in the big man's throat as he forged after his diminutive, hasty friend; he wanted this finished, done, ended for good. Battle in the wet dark of night in the shadows of ancient Mordor's borders was not a memory he wished to carry. He wanted to be done with wars and the trappings of war, the hatefulness and anger and just plain misery of it all. Out there on the Wetwang he had a right fine farm with a good house and barn and all his harvest in for the winter.

"What am I doing here?" he grumbled, and batted aside a clinging alder.

Long strides bore him through thicket and beck with no thought for silence - If the foe ran, so be it, and if they were fool enough to stand, it would be their last mistake. But he would see the sun come up on the living faces of all who served the cause of good.

A lithe dark form fled on past him; Horus, doubtless seized by the same grim fears. Then Russ broke into the open and saw the most curious thing. Staring, he nearly collided with Horus who seemed to have taken root in equal amazement.

In the centre of a clearing surrounded by whispering alders, where the pallid light of a sliver of crescent moon peered between shredded clouds, two men circled each other. Moonlight glinted on the blades in their hands, and they made no sound but the whisper of their gliding steps in wet leaves. Horus shot a glance up at Russ, and lifted a hand to stay the big man where he stood.

Margul. Anger rose like steam to burn the giant's throat - one squeeze, one snapping of brittle bones and he could put an end to the architect of their misfortunes. He moved but Nik suddenly blocked him, his small, hard hand clamping Russ' wrist. Meanwhile, step and step again, Margul and Darien slowly took each other's measure. A scuffing of leaves marked Alfgard's arrival, a rasp of harsh breathing Gubbitch's presence. Margul would find no escape from this place, now.

Horus' dark eyes gleamed bright as he looked up at Russ and said softly, "There is an older justice, Russbeorn. Let it be served."

So be it. Russ folded his great arms on his chest to wait, for should Darien fail, he most certainly would not.

"Traitor," Margul hissed, and exploded into the attack.

Those who had come to know Darien as a troubled soul deeply haunted by grief and regret abruptly saw another man entirely. Steel clashed and twined and screeched apart faster than the eye could follow, lithe bodies swift in sinuous grace as their blades darted and turned in flashes of metallic light. Darien leapt and bent from the strike that would have gutted him and lunged to the attack just as quick. Where Margul was sheer battering power and lethal speed, Darien was the savage wolf who struck and evaded and struck again, step and turn and step again.

Margul cried out exultantly when his sword hit a solid blow - but a deft twist and ward placed steel where flesh would have been, and Darien bared his teeth "Ha!" as they broke apart. Once again, the combatants circled, gasping now for breath while the tips of their swords wove lightly between them like the heads of waiting serpents.

"Yield now," Darien rasped. "You cannot escape."

"Yield?" Margul's high bark of laughter rang coldly. "To what, Lord of Fools? To dangle at rope's end? To face the headsman's axe? Oh no, traitor, consorter of mad dogs. You who will remember me - for the little while you live!"

A howl propelled Margul's next attack, brutal and hacking and unmindful of self as only the doomed can fight. Darien gave way, paced aside rather than in retreat, warding and parrying with blinding precision. Russ heard Horus' sharp catch of breath when Margul's blow struck the flat of Darien's blade only a finger's-width from the great artery of his thigh.

Yet from that ward Darien surged forward with a wild cry and now the lord of Silverbrook forced the attack. Steel on steel, blade on blade, they matched each other in deadly grace, their every move a contest of skill, a dance of death.

Then swift, so swift Russ never saw the blow until it struck, Darien shouted and Margul buckled and staggered backwards. Again flashed Darien's sword and Margul choked and dropped to his knees, his weapon falling to earth with a dull clank. When Margul looked up, he stared along the length of the taller man's blade and grinned his hatred with blood oozing darkly down his chin.

"You'll have to live with the fruits of your labours," Margul croaked. "Do you know what you have wrought, righteous fools?"

He cackled wetly, and Darien's mouth twisted in bitter silence.

Sucking short, gurgling breaths, Margul sneered, "You'll see. Your reward shall be a world where orcs count as men … the same as your sons … and the dregs of the earth shall lie … with your daughters. Fool, I fight the battle that used to be yours!"

Horus' hand on Darien's shoulder stilled any reply the nobleman might have made. The Haradrim's boot then lashed out to kick Margul's sword spinning out of reach - where it came to rest at the feet of several tall shadows. There Celebsul's silver hair glimmered coldly in dim moonlight, while behind him Halbarad and Anardil arrayed themselves with drawn swords in their hands. Margul saw them, and tried to laugh but instead choked and collapsed further to sit on his hams with one hand braced beside him.

"You have slain justice," he gasped, teeth bared in another bloody sneer. "Justice … for ten thousand years of murder!"

Horus pressed his hand firmly on Darien's chest, finding the man rigid under his palm. "Let be, Darien," he said softly.

Margul slid down again, this time slumping to one elbow. Booted feet shuffled closer, black silhouettes shutting out his view of the stars. Celebsul knelt beside the fallen man and in the darkness his eyes kindled with dim silvery fire.

"Tell us, then," said the elf quietly, fixing his fey gaze on the dying man's face. "Tell us about your justice."

The circle of men somehow shut Darien out, or perhaps Horus had urged him back unwitting. Russ suddenly found himself looking down at the pale oval of the nobleman's face, the wet sheen of his eyes.

"I started this," said Darien, his sword still dangling in his hand as if forgotten. "I started all this. So I had to finish it. Didn't I?"

Russ knew well the glazed, dislocated look of men who have stood too close to death. For the first time, he felt the stirrings of something like understanding for this strange, stiff man from the hills beyond Minas Tirith.

"It is finished," he said. His hand dropped to Nik's shoulder as the little Uruk-hai came to stand beside him. "It is done."

"Aye." Slowly Darien nodded. "Aye, then."

Thereupon he let Horus shepherd him away towards a fallen log at the far side of the clearing. Russ watched him go, watched him bend and drop to his seat with boneless heaviness and then put his head in his hands.

"Teach?"

Russ looked down at Nik's dark form.

"I think we did pretty good," said the little Uruk-hai. "Don't you?"

In answer, Russ patted Nik's shoulder and offered a wan smile. After that, he stepped closer to listen to what words Margul would leave to the world as he died. Judging by the intense silence surrounding the man's mutterings, he said some very interesting things, indeed.

xxx

Vengeance or justice - which motive guided the events of this night? Darien listened with half an ear to the choked, sneering tones of Margul's confession, if it could be called that, and found he had no answer. Not long ago, he agreed with the arguments pouring from the dying man's lips. Orcs were no more than beasts, incapable of compassion or kindness, deserving only death. The same beliefs had lent righteousness to his campaign to wipe the remnants of that race from the face of Middle-Earth. Unfortunately, that campaign ended with the kidnapping of an innocent woman, the death of Landis, a man who had stood at his side since he was little more than a boy, and the almost certain sentence of death for Nik the Uruk. As captain, he held himself responsible for every misdeed committed by the men under his command, for if he did not oversee them, who would?

Thus, he had spent the past months seeking to redress the harm he had done to the people of The Burping Troll. People who had somehow managed what his campaign of revenge had not: to put the war behind them and find a way to live in peace with their former enemies.

The flow of Margul's words ebbed, uneven breathing gurgled and caught and after a pause, sound ceased entirely. The wordless silence that followed proved the fugitive merchant was dead. Darien lowered his head and prayed that with this death, it was indeed over: that he would be allowed to return to his lands and think only of resuming a fruitful life. He had orchards, vineyards and fields to tend, people to govern; Evan and Neal still needed the guidance towards manhood that their slain father could no longer provide.

Gradually Darien became aware someone had stirred up the embers of the fire and that a small oil lamp had been discovered and lit, though the sights revealed by its glow made one long once more for darkness. Something would have to be done about the bodies of the dead orcs: those here, and the two who had attacked on the trail. It was time for him to cast aside his bleak musings and assist with the tasks at hand. As if the thought had drawn him, Anardil appeared from beyond the firelight and strode grim-faced toward Darien.

Horus touched his shoulder, and Darien sighed. There was no debt left unpaid. In response to his lady's request, the ex-Ranger had set aside any claims to compensation from Darien for the injury done to Sevilodorf that winter day so many months ago. Yet, there had remained a stiffness in Anardil's demeanour which spoke of how hard it was to forgive hurt done to a loved one. Darien stood to face the man, Horus stepping back, but not too far.

With a slight nod to the two men, Anardil came directly to the point. "I would ask a favour of you, Lord Darien."

"If there is any way that I might assist, you have only to say," the Silverbrook lord replied.

"You've done quite a lot already this night." Anardil nodded toward the still form of Margul, his ragged disguise covered with a curiously fine cloak. "But a thorough search of this camp must be made in hope that Margul left some tie to the others with whom he dealt."

Darien winced inwardly. It might have been better if he had not killed the man. Had Margul's deathbed statement been sufficient to untangle the web of deceit and reveal the criminal's powerful friends?

Controlling the desire to ask for details of Margul's final words, he said, "Of course, how may I help?"

"Sev refuses to leave without the body of Raberlon. 'Tis her duty and I will not deny her." Pausing briefly, Anardil seemed to gather his resolve before stating his request. "I do not wish her to sit vigil over the body alone while Alfgard collects the remains of those who attacked you on the trail. Will you stand guard with her?"

Noting the stiff earnestness writ on the other man's face, Darien recognised this as a peace offering. The honour of standing watch with the dead was never to be taken lightly, and this would be the best and possibly only gesture Anardil could ever offer.

"Yes," said Darien, and bent his head in a small, solemn bow. "I will do so gladly."

"She is there." Anardil gestured toward a point of light beyond the clearing.

As he stepped back to let Darien pass, Horus followed but paused briefly to meet the former Ranger's eyes.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Anardil nodded once and watched them go. Horus the Haradrim knew about debts. Whilst Darien walked into the small circle of light where Sevi kept her vigil, Horus settled amidst shadows to keep his own watch.

xxx

TBC ….


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Nineteen**

Alfgard still sat with Sev when Darien drew near, but the greying Rohirrim glanced up at his approach and seemed to know his intent. Standing with a curt nod, Alfgard stepped aside and left. Sev did not move, and the whisper of her voice reached Darien's ears.

Whether she spoke softly to the dead man or to forces beyond death, Darien could not guess, for her whole attention remained on Raberlon's body. The old man's clothing had been straightened, his plain wool cloak, with a faded badge stitched onto the shoulder, arranged to hide the wounds that had killed him. His face and hands appeared to have been washed and his grey hair smoothed. Whatever dignity could be granted to the dead, Sev had given him in this shadowed place, so far from the plains and hills of his home. She herself sat with a worn sword scabbard across her lap

The low murmur of her voice broke off as Darien stepped forward. Her eyes, dark pools in the smoky light of a thin torch, regarded him steadily with no sign of tears that he could detect. Only the tightness of her fingers about the scabbard gave any sign of her feelings. He moved hesitantly, for he realised now that while Anardil might sanction his presence, it was possible Sevilodorf had not requested company.

With a sigh, Sev said, "Come, Darien, I won't bite your head off. I know all too well who sent you. Raberlon won't mind, and I would appreciate the company. Spread one of those blankets Hal found for me and join us."

Darien sat, and for a time, there were only the quiet voices of the Rangers searching the camp, the murmuring of the wind and stream, and the occasional hiss as drops fell upon the torch.

Briefly, Sev's fingers tapped softly upon the scabbard then she said, "Sixty-three. I make it sixty-three years since he swore oath to my husband's grandfather, Esthomas. Raberlon always took great pride in being able to say that he had served three generations of the family."

Reaching a hand out to touch the faded badge upon the shoulder of the old man's cloak, she explained, "Every member of the family, whether bound by blood, bond or marriage, pledged their oath to the ideals of Esthomas of the Deeping Vale. Thus, they chose to place in his crest: truth, knowledge and justice. I would like to think that is what Raberlon gave his life to defend."

She met Darien's eyes with a fierce intensity. "'Tis true for Landis also."

The mention of that name might always strike him to the heart; Landis, his oldest friend and comrade, who perished in that black cave as a victim of Grady's madness and Darien's failure to lead with wisdom. For a beat, he could not frame a reply. Then he broke from her gaze and exhaled softly, not quite a sigh.

"What truth did he die for, Mistress Sev? What justice? He died -."

"Because another man chose to act on his own insanity," Sev snapped. "For pity's sake, Lord Darien, can you not see Landis as a man and not a martyr?"

In shock, he simply stared, and Sev snorted, her fingers again caressing the embroidered threads of the family crest on Raberlon's still shoulder.

"Landis of Silverbrook died from wounds received in honourable battle," she said firmly. "He fought to preserve innocent lives and to stop a madman from committing murder. Landis died without regrets, save one; that his passing would harm you. Why do you persist in cursing his ghost?"

"I do not curse his ghost, only the folly that set the path to his murder."

"Yes. However, regret and guilt are two ill-fitting garments that unfortunately lend themselves all too well to constant wear." She clasped her fingers in her lap and looked at him, her expression now stiffly calm. "We mourn our dead, Darien. It is honour to their memories that we hold them always in our hearts. I will be sorry until the end of my life that Raberlon did not die comfortably asleep in his bed, in the fullness of his days and surrounded by his family. But think you … do we wish this for them, or for ourselves?"

Darien bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture that, unbeknownst to him, reminded her of Halbarad when faced with a particularly thorny conundrum.

"Then tell me this, Mistress Sev," he asked, voice slightly muffled, "How do I forgive myself for leading him to his death?"

"Is that not what the captains of warriors do?"

He jerked his head up. "Yes - when their cause is just, and death is a price worth paying for the greater good."

"Is that not what you believed?" Sev found she had inadvertently crossed a battle-line, yet she fought on that ground. "You and Landis and your men strove for what you thought was right."

"But we were mistaken."

"Aye. As were many who took the wrong side because they were blinded from the truth. Yet, if they learn the truth and act nobly upon it, then they deserve forgiveness - ours and their own."

Though Horus stood aside from them, both thought of the Haradrim at that moment.

Looking to the corpse that Sevilodorf mourned in the dry-eyed manner of the Rohirrim, the Silverbrook lord confessed, "I have forgiven others and myself for many things. But for Landis …"

"There is, as you know well, no pretty face to put on war, Darien. Nor is there any way to disremember battle and death. It has taken me a long time to learn what an utter waste it is to walk with grief as a travelling cloak. We must all learn to cast it aside if we are to build the future that our friends and loved ones died for."

Darien nodded slowly in concession. "You speak wisdom, lady. And I would do well to heed you. But it is …" he sighed, long and deep, "… hard."

"Of course it is. What point is there in suffering if it were easy?" She flicked a stray pine needle off her lap. "Don't presume you are the only one to bear the weight of sorrow."

"I would never presume …" He glanced at her and saw a thin, wry smile. Then he offered his own in return. "You are telling me to get used to it and stop feeling sorry for myself."

Sev tilted her head slightly. "It is what I've had to tell myself all too many times."

They fell silent for a little space, listening to the muttering of men's voices and the occasional snap of a twig or scuff of a foot. Darien heard no sound from Horus, but he knew his friend lingered in the shadows just beyond sight. It occurred to him to wonder what the Haradrim thought he watched over - or did Horus see the need to guard Darien against himself?

Finally he said, "What is your secret then, lady? How do you move beyond regret for what you would give anything to undo?"

"One step at a time," Sev replied softly, eyes fixed on her clasped fingers. "Each morning, you get up and put one foot after the other."

"And it gets better?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps - perhaps not. But a friend once told me that our part is to do our best with the present, until there is enough road between us and the past that its claws are dulled." Her glance met his and abruptly sharpened. "Don't you have enough things to keep you busy?"

A snort of dry mirth escaped before Darien could stop it. "I suppose I do, at that."

"Of course you do. You're a lord with lands and people to care for. I should think you'd have your hands full minding everyone's business along with your own."

Now Darien laughed aloud and shook his head. "You make me feel I've been terribly self-indulgent."

"Have you?"

He scratched his nose and breathed a gust of near-exasperation. "My respect for Anardil grows by the moment," he said with a rueful grin. "You are a truly formidable woman. But … you make valid points. Once the final loose ends of this predicament are tied, I do have much else that I could spend my energies on."

"At least two of them have been eating Cameroth out of house and home," Sev observed.

"Evan and Neal?" Darien's smile softened. "Aye, those two are something else. Neal filled out so much this summer that none of his old shirts fit, and I think Evan shot up a hand span."

"Do you have the care of them, when you are home, or have you placed them with another family?"

"Oh, no, Evan resides with me and Neal also, when he's not staying at the smithy. They have relatives, but I want the best for them and I'll do all I can to see that each gets the best possible start in life. Besides …" he opened his hands in a fondly-helpless gesture, "I like having them in the house."

"Can't that be our atonement for regret, Darien?" Sev seemed to study his face as she spoke. "Perhaps the only way to push the past behind us is to keep walking until we find the future. I have Anardil. You have two boys to raise."

"Aye." Slowly Darien nodded before repeating softly, "Aye."

A moment, then Sev said, "Landis was a good man." When Darien met her gaze she added gently, "If circumstances had been different, I would have been pleased to call him a friend."

Grief abruptly burned behind Darien's eyes but he breathed it away. "Thank you," he whispered.

Then they sat quietly together in remembrance of honoured friends while the night crept slowly on.

xxx

"Nothing of interest," said Halbarad, dropping a sodden article of orcish clothing with a wince of distaste.

Beside him, Celebsul frowned thoughtfully and nodded. "Like any camp of fugitives and thieves, the mere scraps of a miserable living."

"Hard to imagine Margul was once Gondor's premier purveyor of rare and valuable goods," Halbarad agreed. "Welcome in all the finest parlours of Minas Tirith."

Together the two glanced to the slender body laid beneath an elegant cloak at the far edge of firelight. A mutter of voices marked the other men plus Nik and Gubbitch searching the camp, while beside the campfire Russ hunched like a dour monolith, his thoughts unknowable, his bearded face unreadable.

"Which could explain his connection to Lord Valthaur," noted Anardil. He straightened from poking through the shoddy blankets and gear found in scratched-out shelters beyond the slain orcs' side of the campfire. "With no real proof, we have little more than the dying ravings of a madman."

Halbarad grimaced. "Hearing the workings of that man's mind was like taking a swim in the midden in July. How anyone can imagine themselves so far above the rule of law that even murder is justifiable is beyond me."

"Aye." Anardil cast his old friend a wry glance. "And let us not forget using the objects of his hatred as his tools. The man lacked only a tower and a dungeon to be a slave master."

With a disgusted sigh he flung down a worn leather belt. "Miserable, worthless, double-crossing scum."

Wryly Halbarad noted, "He's dead, Dil. Save your curses."

The one-armed man shot the Ranger a hard look. "I wanted him."

Unperturbed, Hal toed aside a burlap sack containing the soggy remains of half a loaf of bread, some mouldy cheese and a thin strip of unidentifiable meat.

"If this is all he provided in the way of food and clothing, his reputation was poor enough without the tower."

"True," said Anardil softly and took a calming breath as he allowed his eyes to sweep the circle of the camp. Frowning, he murmured, "A dandy man. That's what Erin called him, and there was only the best to be found in his own apartments in Minas Tirith. Where are his fine clothes now?"

"A man can hardly be expected to keep appointments with his tailor while evading the law. He's been on the run for the past six months."

Anardil gave Halbarad a knowing look. "Some of the best dressed men I know dare not show their faces to the light of day. And why have a cloak so fine when the rest of your clothing is little more than tatters?"

Halbarad watched as Anardil went down on one knee beside the body to examine the garment in question. His friend was right; nothing else in this camp came close to the cloak's quality.

"A recent acquisition I would say. Too clean to have spent the past week in the wild. Cleanliness, by the way, is a much more difficult task for those wanting to avoid notice. Tarannon checked with the washerwomen and the bathhouse owner. No one even close to Margul's description had frequented their establishments. And we've found no funds to indicate he was able to bribe anyone."

"What of The Black Cauldron? Drath would lie to protect him."

"But Lorgarth would not," Anardil shrugged, "and I would trust the word of the orc rather than the man in that case."

"So he stole it."

"No one reported such a theft. Somewhere out there," Anardil waved his hand toward the forest, "is the owner of this cloak. Quite possibly deprived of his remaining clothing as well. What I want to know is where is the cloak this one replaced?"

"Somewhere out there." Hal indicated the forest.

"Such a person," said Celebsul suddenly, "would undoubtedly conceal his few valuable possessions from companions such as his."

Both men stared at the elf, who gazed back at them in mild expectation. "Orcs are notorious thieves," he added. "Their master would wish to at least keep his belongings from easy view."

Halbarad and Anardil looked at each other then Hal straightened and called out to the other Rangers. "Widen your search. We are seeking anything Margul may have hidden whilst he went to the village."

Thus inspired, the men renewed their search. Yet it was Russ who drew forth from the hollow of an old tree a small, neatly-buckled pack.

"Sneaks and thieves," the huge man said. "One hiding things from the other."

Halbarad took it in hand and brought it to the fire, Russ following. There the Ranger emptied the contents for examination; a towel, small scissors, some string, a tinderbox, an extra pair of stockings, a spare shirt, an old coat … and a very neatly folded suit of clothes.

Russ and two of the Rangers leaned to watch and Anardil knelt while Halbarad rolled the garments out flat. Revealed were breeches of good worsted wool, a linen shirt, a wine-hued jerkin and a surcoat of dark blue. Anardil picked up a supple leather belt and examined the ornate pewter buckle. When he met Halbarad's eyes, his expression was sombre, for they beheld evidence of murder.

Standing over them, Russ looked down and said, "Someone's son or husband won't be coming home."

Nobody chose to voice the thought of a poor traveller's body lying untended and un-mourned wherever Margul may have left it. Instead, Anardil began checking the garments for pockets, Halbarad helping his one-armed friend manage the cloth.

Pockets there were, but every one of them empty. Shaking his head in regret, Anardil admitted, "Nothing. There's no clue as to who the victim might have been … unless," he reached for the old coat, "Margul transferred his victim's documents to his own clothes."

In seconds, something crinkled to Anardil's touch. Halbarad reached past him to draw a small fold of paper from the coat's inside pocket.

Marked on the note's face were a broken wax seal and an ornately-drawn script of a stylised letter V.

"Is it …?" Hal looked at Anardil, and his friend was already nodding.

"It is. I have seen his mark on other matters for the King."

"Who?" growled Russ, his narrow gaze glinting in the firelight. Nik appeared beside him, looking from one man to the other in concern.

"Valthaur," replied Anardil grimly. "No doubt this is the message that Drath denied ever passing on."

Halbarad sank back on his haunches and his face appeared oddly drawn in the flickering firelight. "I almost hate to look. I almost don't want to know why one of the noblest men in the realm would traffic with the likes of Margul."

Nonetheless, he thumbed the page open and scanned it quickly. He sucked a breath as if inhaling an odious smell, then handed it to Anardil and stood up.

Still kneeling, Anardil read the note aloud. The sparse, elegantly penned lines of script simply said: "_Margul – Matters have turned against us. I am removed. K compromised. I cannot help you now. Settle this in the most final and expedient manner possible. Make no mistakes_."

Nik tugged at Russ' sleeve and whispered, "What does it mean, Teach?"

Russ' mouth appeared not to move in the thick brush of his beard. "It means the law person, Valthaur, sent the snake to do harm. He sent this Margul to commit murder."

"Oh, dear," whispered Nik, his eyes huge.

Only with effort did Anardil restrain himself from hurling the missive into the campfire. His expression turned bleak as he looked beyond its cheerful dance to the point of light that marked Sev sitting at her sad vigil. But for luck, it would be him sitting vigil over her slain body and all his world in ashes.

Halbarad tapped him atop the head and when he looked up, Hal waggled fingers to take the note. "We'll need to keep that."

Anardil rose and handed it over without giving it a second look. "Let's get out of here," he said.

Then he strode off, leaving Halbarad with a condemning message and a dead man's things. Anardil had a lady who did not need to bear darkness and death without him.

"What comes of this now?" asked Russ.

The Ranger captain met Russ' pointed look wearily. "Lord Valthaur will answer."

"How?" The Beorning's question came in a bass rumble. "How does a lord of law answer to treachery in the very duty he is sent to perform?"

"Like any other man, Russ," Halbarad replied, and his jaw firmed. His gaze dropped to Nik, the little Uruk's face screwed into an expression of anxiety. "Betrayal is answerable with vengeance, whether that man be great or small."

Not long after, scrutiny of the campsite was complete and litters were made to bear Raberlon and Margul back to the village, one in honour and the other in ignobility. Somewhere in the dripping woods the bodies of Margul's orcs now lay covered in rocks and forest debris, the only burial anyone cared to give their ancient foe on such a dreary night. The grim hunt was done at last.

Anardil clasped Sev's left hand as they fell in amongst the retreating cavalcade and Alfgard took up station at her right. The last of the Rangers tossed some wet dirt into the dying fire and the campsite plunged into darkness.

Together, friends and comrades made their weary way back to the world of light and living.

xxx

_October 29th _

_Mid-morning_

_Village of Henneth Annûn_

The guests of Alfgard's stables did not stir until late in the morning, but when they did, the clouds had vanished and bright, crisp sunlight beamed. The soot-grimed walls of Alfgard's barn provided a stark contrast to the rain-washed blue of the October sky. Beside the main doors a twisted mountain of tack lay steaming in a puddle, carried away from the danger of fire only to be abandoned to the ravages of rain. Scattered across the once immaculate yard was a trail of charred straw, half burnt sacks of grain and unidentifiable black muck shovelled out by industrious stable hands. Though the structure itself remained sound, the barn would require a very great deal of cleaning.

A wrap snuggled about her shoulders against the chill breezes of the October morning, Erin the hobbit regarded the debris dejectedly. How had everything become such a mess? Why was it that Men chose to lie, set fire to barns, kidnap and murder - for she did not forget the body of Raberlon resting upon a bier in Linnet's parlour - rather than simply get along? She could never imagine a hobbit doing anything like that to another hobbit. Why, even Lotho Pimple had never been that bad.

Tilting her head up with a frown, Erin asked, "Why do they do it, Celebsul? Men, I mean."

"Perhaps because the shortness of their lives makes some of them impatient; why labour for years when what they desire can be snatched in a moment?" The elf's sad smile seemed to look into a distance greater than simple hobbits could imagine. "Sauron, and his master before him, released such greed into the world and it endures beyond them. Then there are those who do not know the value of life, even to the point of believing baubles are of greater worth. That is a not a fault of men alone." Celebsul turned a warmer smile to the small person at his side. "We can all learn from your people, Erin; to learn to love the simple pleasures."

Erin cocked her head thoughtfully and asked, "Elves, learn from hobbits?"

"Yes, for a time. But the days of the Eldar are over. Those of my people who do not abandon these shores will retreat to the sheltered places of the world and slowly dwindle. As will all those who are not Men."

Clearly the grim deeds of past days wore even upon an ageless elf's spirit, and Erin looked up at him and patted his arm.

"Until that day comes, we must all get on with the business of living. Anyway, not all Men are bad."

"No indeed they are not." The elf smiled at the hobbit's serious expression then glanced in the direction of the five figures standing by the paddock gate. "Are they all waiting for you?"

"Such foolishness!" Erin exclaimed. "Sevi said that she must go to The Whistling Dog to check on Sira, and Anardil wouldn't hear of it. I'm sure you can imagine the argument they had."

"Only too well."

"Then I offered to go in Sevi's place. After all, that's why I came along: to help her out. Only Alfgard and Darien insisted I be accompanied by a proper escort." The hobbit lass huffed and rolled her eyes toward the paddock. "Proper, my furry toes. Two orcs and three men to escort me half-a-mile borders on the ridiculous. We would have done as well to allow Nik to bring the Warg."

Given the events of the past few days, Celebsul thought Erin lucky to have only five guards. For a moment, he considered asking if she understood that Nik's presence in the group would necessitate the Gondorian guards stationed on the lane tagging along also.

"Never mind, if I have to take them, I have to take them." She gave quick, fatalistic sigh. "Maybe we'll stop at the apothecary and get Lugbac some more horehound drops. I know that Master Banazîr would very much like to hear news of Horus. He sent his apprentice over this morning with a tonic he thought would ward off any effects of last night's activity."

A subtle way, Celebsul felt certain, for the apothecary to inform Sevilodorf of which events were now common gossip within the village. It would be interesting to discover how the tale was being told by Sira.

Erin abruptly beamed a dimpled smile up at her elven companion. "Anyhow, I had best be trotting along before Sevi comes out to see if I've left, or Alfgard and Darien change their mind and decide to send three more people with me."

She bustled away to meet her waiting guardians, her rounded arms waving imperious summons as she greeted them.

"Hurry up, the morning is wasting!" she cried. "All this laying about never gets a thing done. Come along!"

With bemused grins Neal and Nik fell in at either side of her, while Lugbac, Evan and Alfgard's sturdy sixteen-year-old son trailed behind. Celebsul watched them go down the lane and, as he expected, two of the soldiers joined the procession. He laughed quietly when he heard the hobbit begin to make introductions. The world would undoubtedly be a better place if hobbits were in charge.

xxx

Dark broth oozed from the flaky crust of a meat pie and dribbled down Lugbac's fingers to be hastily licked away. After checking the wide expanse of his new shirt for stains, the orc turtled his neck and leaned forward at the waist to take another bite of the warm pastry. Beside him, Nik, the two Gondorian soldiers and Neal were also engaged in the battle to remain neat, yet enjoy to the utmost the delicacies delivered to them by Cameroth himself.

So intently was Lugbac concentrating that a jab in the ribs from Nik came as a complete surprise. He jerked upright only to lose hold of the final bite and drop it upon the ground. Instinctively, he reached to scoop it up, only to have his arm grasped by the little Uruk-hai.

"Look, Lugbac, just like Gubbitch said. A giant hobbit," exclaimed Nik excitedly, and pointed toward four horsemen coming toward them.

A curious little company they made as they rode sedately up the village street. Two were Rangers cloaked and hooded against the October chill - for the sun offered but meagre warmth - both wore the insignia of the White Company, one mounted on a steel-grey horse, the other on a bay. Between them rode a marvellously plump, rosy-cheeked man on a heavy-footed horse fully as broad as he was, while following behind came a thin young man with enormous brown eyes who clung to his sleepy-eyed steed as if he feared a tumble at any moment.

"Here now, show proper respect," said one of the Gondorian soldiers, wiping at the crumbs which adorned his grey-speckled beard. "That's the Lord Goldur."

"The new law lord," breathed Nik, not taking his eyes from the round smiling face of the man who would soon decide his fate.

Lugbac nodded wisely. "Cause Lord Oliphaunt was being bad."

Both Neal and the second Gondorian soldier choked as Nik replied, "No, we're not sure the oliphaunt man was bad, only the one with the poky eyebrows."

"Oh." Lugbac shrugged and looked mournfully at his fallen pastry.

Then he became aware the soldiers had taken up positions to either side of Nik with hands on their sword hilts. Confused, for the men had been so nice, he rose to stand towering over them only to have Neal place a hand on his arm.

"Easy, Lug," the young man warned.

As the little company clip-clopped to a halt before them, a jovial voice said, "Good morning, gentlemen. I am Goldur, a circuit judge. Am I correct in assuming one of you is Nik of Russbeorn Farm?"

Lord Goldur shifted his considerable bulk on his saddle, and the horse sidestepped beneath him.

"Yes, your lordship, this be the Uruk, Nik," answered the taller of the soldiers and pointed to the half-sized orc.

Goldur smiled pleasantly. "And your name, my good man?"

"Ranulf, my lord." The guard nodded stiffly and rubbed surreptitiously at a blob of broth on his shirt front. "My brother, Grathir and I were directed by Captain Tarannon to keep the Uruk from any harm."

Grathir grinned so that the jagged scar on his face twisted curiously, and bobbed his head in modest greeting.

The law lord nodded and addressed Nik directly. "I am sorry your case was delayed. We will endeavour to set things straight as soon as possible. Might I assume that all the witnesses are still available and ready to testify?"

Nik shrugged uncertainly, and Neal whispered, "He means is everyone ready to tell the truth about what happened in the cave."

"Oh, yes, sir." Nik nodded in quick agreement and smiled up at the rotund man. "Horus is not sick any more, and Sevi says a few bruises and scratches won't stop her from talking."

The law lord's mirth manifest itself in a deepening of the creases between his double chin and a twinkle in his bright eyes. "Dare I ask how Mistress Sevilodorf acquired her bruises? What would be your guess, Kerwin?" Goldur cast a wink and a glance at the thin man at his side.

The young fellow pried his fingers loose of his saddle pommel in an unsteady attempt to sit up straight. "M-my lord, from my own experience with - with the lady, I would suspect them to have – to have been earned – why, I should say while engaged in coming to the assistance of s-someone else."

The two Rangers exchanged looks that told Neal and Nik they also had personal knowledge of Sevilodorf's tendency to fall into trouble.

"Excuse me, sir," Ranulf said hesitantly. "I believe Captain Tarannon should give you the full details about what's happened these last few days."

"Yes, he will undoubtedly have a great deal to tell me," Goldur said. "But before we go on, there's something to be returned to one of your friends. Captain Beregond, would you mind walking the rest of the way?"

Before the Ranger on the grey horse could reply, Kerwin blurted, "Oh, no, sir, let Captain Beregond switch to my horse, while I walk."

Amusement warmed the rotund lord's face. "Are you sure, my boy? I would not trouble you."

A brilliant smile of relief underscored a repeat of the youth's ungainly stammer. "Oh, not - not at all, sir. In fact, I am grateful - most grateful for a chance to -to stretch my legs."

Swinging one long leg over the wrong side, Kerwin managed an awkward dismount which dropped him to earth facing the wrong way, whereupon he stumbled and nearly collided into the grey Ranger mount beside him. With a snort the horse sidestepped and looked with equine disbelief at the young man.

Before the Gondorian guards could react, Nik dashed forward to pat the tall grey cheerfully on the neck, speaking as if to an old friend. "How are you, Gomel? Did you enjoy the trip? I've never been to Emyn Arnen. You'll have to tell me about it."

Waving the soldiers back, Goldur looked down at the runty Uruk and chuckled as he said, "You speak the language of horses?"

The grey's rider lightly dismounted to watch the encounter with visible amusement, but did not speak. Nik meanwhile shrugged in brief awkwardness.

"Not very well. I've learned some things from Teach; he has the real knack for it. But Gomel knows how to talk to people. He's Rohirrim, like Sevi and the men at the stables."

"And Gomel is your friend?"

Nik grinned and rubbed the horse's neck. "He let me ride him when Anardil said I could. He belongs to Anardil, you know?'

"I do know that." Looking toward the hooded Ranger who still remained on his horse, Goldur raised an eyebrow and received a nod in return. "As you and Gomel are old friends, might I trust you to return him to Anardil?"

"Of course. As soon as Erin's finished tending to Sira's ankle, we'll be going back. There's still lots to clean up from the fire."

"A fire and Miss Sira injured also?" Goldur pursed his mouth in a momentary moue of concern. "My word, it's obvious I must speak to Tarannon as soon as possible. Good day, gentlemen. Kerwin, I will see you at the Ranger's Lodge in a few minutes?"

Receiving an affirmative from his clerk, Goldur nodded to the rest of Nik's companions then continued down the road. Gomel meanwhile lowered his big head to push at Nik's chest, evidently hoping for a snack. In response, the little Uruk's cackling laughter rang merrily in the lane.

xxx

As the morning drew closer to noon, Halbarad came to Alfgard's door and followed Linnet's direction to the second-best parlour. A scene of bucolic serenity greeted him, in marked contrast to the chaos of the night before: little Nora sat on the floor between Erin's and Sev's seats helping with a basket of mending, whilst Anardil and Horus pored over a chess board, Darien buried his nose in a book and Russ sat by the hearth, eyes closed with his arms crossed on his broad chest.

However, Halbarad knew that this setting doubled as a sickroom, for both Sev and Horus were meant to rest under Erin's discerning eye. The Haradrim was presumed the worse for wear after a night in the rain so soon after illness, and Sev certainly looked ill-used.

The Ranger hesitated in the open doorway and winced as Sev looked up and rose from her chair.

"That bad?" she asked wryly.

He offered a wry grin and touched his cheek. "You're rather purple here, and you're moving like your hinges have rusted."

Sev snorted and gestured to a chair. "The nmad hills were steep last night. Please, sit if you like."

Halbarad nodded to the others and settled on the edge of the indicated chair. "I've only a moment. Lord Goldur inquires if it is convenient for all of those involved to reconvene the hearing today, one hour after noon."

"My goodness," exclaimed Erin from her low stool beside Sev's chair. "He can scarcely have had time to wash away the travel dust."

"Lord Goldur is not one to allow the grass to grow beneath his feet when the path is clear before him," remarked Darien, a finger holding the pages of his book.

"Pity," rumbled Russ. "Could have used a man like that from the beginning."

With a cautionary nod toward the child at her side, Sev said, "Someone should go fetch Nik. It is after all, a hearing about him. He is the one to decide if things move forward today." Bending, she asked, "Nora, would you run and tell Nik there's a message for him? He's out in the barn with your father."

"Yes, Mistress Sevi!" chirped the lass, and sprang to her feet to scamper towards the door, only barely remembering to drop a swift curtsey ere she fled.

Low chuckles marked her departure, but now conversation could take a more serious turn. Anardil sat back from the chessboard and exchanged glances with Halbarad.

Quietly he said, "With that note we found in Margul's camp, Lord Goldur has been presented an even greater tangle than he could have expected. Perhaps he looks to resolve matters here quickly, so that he might focus on the other."

"What other?" Russ grumbled, and leaned his massive frame forward to survey Anardil with a dark look. "There is nothing of the matter of Nik's innocence that should be handled in haste, so this law person can hurry off to other business."

Snapping off her thread, Sev folded the little smock and placed it atop the stack of mending. "Knowing how to get to the heart of a matter quickly does not mean that Lord Goldur will cut any corners either. I trust him, and I do not bestow my trust lightly."

"And most often in rascally Rangers and good-hearted orcs," Anardil grinned.

As the others laughed, Sev frowned and tossed her spool of thread at him. He caught it deftly, whereupon Anardil sobered and said, "Nik's case has indeed become one small piece of a much larger situation. But with Lord Goldur's guidance, his portion of this tale will soon be complete."

"And ours?" Sev asked. "Or do you mean to play a leading role in the next chapter?"

"Me?" Anardil mustered a wounded frown, while across the chess table Horus hid his mouth behind one hand. "I have never been more than a minor character in this saga, and have no desire to increase my part."

Halbarad choked while Sev snorted derisively and said, "You - walk away from an unsolved mystery. That would be like a hobbit leaving the dinner table without dessert."

"Or you, my dear, staying safely indoors when it rains," returned Anardil.

"I will if you will," Sev retorted.

Rolling the spool of thread between his fingers, Anardil said, "Margul left a few loose ends. So far there has been no way to tie them together. With luck, Faramir or Goldur will find the connections."

"And where is this Steward?" asked Russ. "Is he true to his word, or is he also in haste to make things tidy?"

Yet before anyone could answer, a thudding of feet marked Nik's arrival, grinning widely and smelling of saddle soap.

"Nora said there was a message for me?"

"Indeed there is." Smiling, Halbarad held out a folded page marked with a small red wax seal.

Nik's eyes widened. "A letter for me?"

He took it gingerly in both grubby hands, but since even a very clever Uruk had little idea about the writing of Men, he looked up with a bewildered smile.

"What does it say, Halbarad?"

"Lord Goldur is waiting to know if he may reconvene the hearing after lunch."

If it were possible, Nik's eyes got even larger. "He's asking me?"

Laugh lines appeared at the corners of Halbarad's eyes. "Yes, Nik, he is. And a messenger is outside waiting for your reply."

Nik's grin could have lit the entire great hall at Emyn Arnen. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get ready!"

As laughter rounded the room, Erin cried sternly, "Not until after lunch!"

"Oh, of course not, Mistress Erin." Nonetheless, Nik's glee was infectious enough to arouse a smile even from Russ, who decided a good smoke of his pipe would be just the thing to celebrate.

When the group stirred, Sev heaved a quick sigh and picked up the basket of mending. "Now that that's decided, Erin, let us go help Linnet with lunch, while the men make certain that Osric and the rest of Darien's men are notified."

At the door she paused and peered pointedly at Nik's trousers. "Don't forget to be certain Lugbac is made presentable."

Then as she and Erin departed, Halbarad looked at Darien, then Anardil with both eyebrows raised.

"She's taking Lugbac into the courtroom?"

With a nod, Anardil replied, "It's a reward after last night."

Halbarad frowned. "Going to a courtroom is a reward?"

Anardil leaned forward and slid a piece across the chessboard. "Check. Lugbac wants to see an oliphaunt, and Sev said this was the best she could do."

Darien laughed while Horus blinked and looked at the board as if wondering how the pieces got into that particular configuration.

Grinning, Anardil added, "Concentration, my friend. Never slip or the oliphaunt will step on you."

Horus' white teeth shone in a wry smile, then he leaned back in his chair to ponder his response. Darien meanwhile glanced at Russ, occupied with tamping pipe weed into his bowl, and frowned thoughtfully.

"One has to wonder," he said, "how the oliphaunt will conduct himself, now that his game is up."

"Aye," replied Anardil. "Lord Faramir would be one of the few people to outrank Valthaur. Let us hope he will pose no difficulty."

xxx

TBC ….


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty**

_Village of Henneth Annûn_

Lord Valthaur posed no difficulty at all. Few knew of the incriminating note found in the slain Margul's personal effects. Fewer yet were present when the order came placing Valthaur under house arrest pending further investigation. There was but one authority in Henneth Annûn to whom the law lord would bow, and Valthaur conceded with frigid grace.

When word came of Lord Goldur's declaration to recommence the hearing, hasty though the assembly seemed, the news flew through the village as only gossip can. Even before Goldur appeared, the rumbling of many voices filled the dining hall of the Ranger barracks where court would resume. Most of the spectators were simply villagers and local folks, who came to see if their speculation about the hearing's delay would approach the actuality.

Nonetheless, sharp-eyed Rangers lined the walls, watching the gathering crowd for any signs of mischief. Outside, stern Gondorian soldiers stood guard at the gates of the compound. With Margul and his orcs slain, the clerk, Khint, in custody and Valthaur under guard, there seemed little chance for trouble, but Captain Tarannon would take no risks. He paced the yard and watched spectators as they arrived, stern as steel in his regard.

Tarannon's attention sharpened when he noticed a minor commotion at the gate; the little Uruk-hai and his comrades had arrived. People spilled aside from Russ' stolid path like water peeling from a ship's prow, while following him were the most curious assortment of folk any citizen of Gondor could ever hope to see. In the huge Beorning's wake walked diminutive Nik, misshapen old Gubbitch and hulking, simple-witted Lugbac, accompanied by Erin the hobbit, Sevilodorf of Rohan, Celebsul the elf and Horus of the House of Narâk, the latter exotically resplendent in a wine-hued tunic with a black cotton _hattah_ wrapped about his head. The Men who trailed them, Halbarad, Anardil, Darien and the rest of the lads from Silverbrook, appeared almost mundane by comparison.

Nonetheless, all eyes followed their entrance into the improvised courtroom, for around this small company would once again blow the winds of unlikely change.

"Remember, Lugbac," said Sev, as the cavernous space of the hall closed about them, "touch nothing and sit quietly."

"Yes, Mistress Sev," the big orc answered with a dutiful nod. He clasped his gnarled paws carefully before him, hunching his shoulders as if somehow he could make his hulking body appear less ominous. "No touch, sit quiet."

Gubbitch beamed a startling, multihued grin and cackled merrily. "Might add sit gentle to that. Great lummox, tha could break furniture just plantin' thy fat hams."

Lugbac's eyes widened in alarm while he scanned the benches placed neatly about the room; before he could respond, Nik exclaimed, "Oh, look at everyone in here!"

Grinning with astonishment as the guards at the door cleared a path through the crowd for them, he added, "Why, half the country must have come to watch."

Nik's excitement could be attributed to his faith in the kindly Lord Goldur, for equal numbers had attended the first, failed hearing. However, not everyone shared his enthusiasm.

"Yes," said Russ, slanting dour looks to either side. "Flocking to stare like chickens at a bug."

Nik laughed and twisted to smile up at his huge friend. "It will be all right, Teach. They just want to see what the truth really is, that's all."

Russ grumbled a reply that no one could distinguish and none cared to pursue. One of the Rangers stationed to keep order in the hall beckoned, and the group followed him amongst the chattering crowd of spectators and shop-owners towards a certain section of benches and chairs.

The Ranger halted to indicate seating. "Those viewing may sit here. The witnesses will please sit over there to be called."

Then he left the company to its own devices. Evidently, the powers-that-be trusted that the mere presence of Captain Tarannon's men would suffice to keep order despite the surprising crush of onlookers. And indeed, people milled comfortably about the seating areas, greeting friends and neighbours with the air of attending a however-curious picnic.

"The mood at least is good," observed Erin as she hopped to sit on a bench. "Well, everyone but old sour puss, there."

The hobbit lass cast a severe glance past Darien towards Osric, who slouched among his comrades with a sullen glare. Of note was the fact that Ham and Tom now stood apart from him, talking cheerfully with Darien and Evan, clearly simple men who had come to terms with themselves.

Sev settled beside the hobbit with a sigh, not yet ready to part from the company of Anardil and her friends to go to the witness seating.

"Let us hope it bodes well," she said. Looking down at her tightly clenched hands, she spread them to rest on her knees. "I keep telling myself Lord Goldur is no Valthaur."

"Yes, just a giant hobbit," Erin replied with a dimpled smile.

"Where?" blurted Lugbac, stretching to peer about the room.

"Daft chuff." Gubbitch whacked him on one meaty arm. "Not yet. Now sit thee – and mind tha does it careful."

"Reet. Careful." The big orc shuffled backwards at the bench, then lowered himself as if he were made of glass.

Anardil edged warily about Lugbac - not for fear of what he might do intentionally but from practiced concern for what the orc might break or tip over - and came to sit beside Sev.

"Nervous, love?" he asked with a gentle smile.

"Of course not. I always have sweaty palms and chattering knees." Sev exhaled a quick gust. "I just hope my tongue doesn't stick to the roof of my mouth and I sound like a complete dullard."

"Now, Sev, I have faith in you." Anardil leaned to brush a kiss to her cheek. "Lord Goldur simply wants the truth and I have every faith he will make it as easy for you to tell as possible."

Sev nodded and took another deep breath and let it go. Beside her, Erin gave a quick smile and reached to squeeze her friend's hand.

"You'll be fine, Sevi. Just tell what you know. Things are looking up already, you know. Poor Cullen is finally safe home with his family – and I dare say he will never want to leave the farm again. And we last saw Sira positively wilting in Ted's arms. In all, I think matters are ending rather well."

Sev snorted in amusement, for their last glimpse of Sira at The Whistling Dog did indeed appear that her swain had set himself to coddle the barmaid to the limits of human endurance.

"The poor man," said Sev dryly. "Next she'll have him bringing her breakfast in bed with flowers on her tray."

Erin arched her eyebrows. "And this is a bad thing?"

The two women chuckled together ere Lugbac sat up with a jolt that shook the entire bench. "Look! He's here! The giant hobbit!"

The pitch of conversation changed and shifted as Lord Goldur's rotund figure heaved itself through the open door. Amidst a wave of greetings and bows, the portly law lord stumped his way inside and among the crowd, rosy-cheeked and smiling. His scribe, thin, dark-robed young Kerwin, hovered at his master's elbow with a sheaf of papers under his arm, while the equally thin but contrastingly severe Willelmus followed.

Midway across the room, Goldur stopped to exchange words with two local merchants, whereupon he abruptly burst into laughter at some jest or joke. The vigour of his hilarity was such that his belly and chins all jiggled in merry symphony. At the sight, Lugbac gave a gurgling sound one might presume was amusement and clapped his knotty hands.

"Giant hobbit!" he burbled happily, oblivious to Nik's hiss of warning and Gubbitch's clout on the shoulder.

Despite or perhaps because of Lugbac's cheerful foolishness, Sev's posture relaxed and Anardil threaded their fingers together. He dared at last to hope that all this truly would end as well as Nik and the hobbit lass supposed. A second stirring at the door cast a moment's pall, however, when a man even vaster than Goldur filled the entrance.

Lord Valthaur had arrived, escorted by two solemn-faced soldiers. Without a look either right or left, he sailed through the throng like a battleship entering harbour, noble, aloof, composed.

"A baby Oliphaunt!" exclaimed Lugbac, and winced when Sev sharply pinched his ribs. In lower tones the great orc added, "Don't look very nice, though."

"Look at 'im," muttered Gubbitch. "Butter don't melt in that mouth, I can tell thee."

Erin frowned primly, while Sev studiously averted her eyes. "Appearances are everything, I'm sure," the hobbit said. "Anyhow, all he can do now is stare at people, and we're certainly not afraid of that."

"You may not be," retorted Sev, the dark splotches of new bruises standing out sharply along her cheek, "but the man scares me rigid."

She inhaled shakily but then squared her shoulders to watch Valthaur make his ponderous way towards his seat.

"That's my lady," murmured Anardil in approval.

Most would assume that the two accompanying soldiers were an honour guard for Valthaur, for knowledge of his complicity with Khint and Margul remained privy to only a select few. All the ordinary folk knew was that his clerk had been embroiled in some sort of irregularity which rendered the first proceedings void. Now Lord Goldur had come to assure a fresh, untainted resumption of the hearings.

While Valthaur took his place in an opulent chair near the head of the room, studiously ignoring his escort, Lord Goldur began wending his way towards his post with Kerwin at his heels. His course took a slight detour when he caught sight of Nik and his companions.

Feet shuffled and benches scraped as Sev and Anardil stood, the rest of their friends scrambling up when they saw whom it was. Goldur's plump cheeks bunched in a warm smile as he drew near and halted to scan the group.

"Mistress Sevilodorf," he said jovially. "You are looking particularly well."

Blinking back her surprise, Sev bowed. "Thank you, sir."

"And Mistress Erin – I have missed the excellent hobbit cooking of The Burping Troll. Speaking of food, how fares your mighty friend, Warg?"

Kerwin smiled at Goldur's side, for he had also met the Troll's giant lupine resident.

Erin's dimples deepened and she replied, "Furry as ever and possibly even a little fat."

"Oh, splendid. I can tell you I have looked back on my visit many times with great fondness." Goldur's eyes twinkled while he regarded both women, his chubby fingers laced across his belly. "Where else would I take breakfast with a talking warg, or find three hobbits singing to help the hens resume laying."

The Rohirrim woman stared in bafflement before Erin leaned to say in a stage whisper, "After Lugbac tried to peek at the baby chicks."

Sev's mouth formed a silent O of comprehension as Goldur shifted his attention to one side, still smiling. "And good afternoon to you, Nik. I trust you are well?"

The little Uruk bounced on his heels, grinning from ear to ear. "Yes, I am, lord. How do you do?"

Again, Goldur's belly jiggled around a warm chuckle. "I am very well, thank you. Are you ready to speak in front of this teeming horde?"

"Oh, yes, I am. Tom and Ham have promised to behave now, and I know Master Horus and Mistress Sev will be with me. I'm not nervous at all."

"Splendid. I will do my best to assure that proceedings go as smoothly as possible."

Russ stirred and spoke, looming over the law lord like a tree. "What of the troublemaker?"

"Troublemaker?" asked Goldur, looking up at the bearded giant with equanimity.

"That one, who clings to his untruths like his favourite coat," Russ rumbled. He jerked a thumb towards Osric, who now sat over on the witness bench with a black scowl on his face and a dour-looking Ranger standing close watch. "Any man of wit can see he has no intentions of telling the proper tale."

"Ah, yes." Goldur lifted a podgy finger to rub his equally round nose. "The legacy of Master Khint's manoeuvring still haunts us."

A sudden loud clearing of a throat jarred the murmur of surrounding voices, and heads turned to see Willelmus standing at the presiding table.

"Places, ladies and gentlemen," the chamberlain intoned. "This hearing will soon be called to order."

As people began jostling around them and moving towards their seats, the law lord met Russ' gaze squarely, though he had to tilt his head back to do so. Like drawing a hidden blade, sudden steel underlay his tone.

"I assure you, Russbeorn, there will be no quibbling, double-talking, duplicity, chicanery, deception or just plain foolishness in my court room. I am here to delve into the truth of a matter which carries a person's life and freedom in the balance. Does this please you?"

Russ looked down at the rotund man, who abruptly bore the severe expression of a stern father, and he slowly scratched his beard. "If all those words mean you'll recognise a lie when it slaps on the floor in front of you, yes."

"They mean just that, sir."

"Teach," whispered Nik urgently. "I got to go."

Glancing down at his diminutive friend, Russ swallowed and nodded. Sev and Horus were now already halfway across the room with Bevin and Evan, while Tom and Ham ambled behind. Flashing a last, encouraging grin, Nik scampered to join them in the witness seating.

With a sigh, Russ returned his attention to Lord Goldur. One of the ubiquitous Rangers drifted near to stand waiting at Goldur's elbow, a fine looking fellow who might have been a captain by his bearing. There was something vaguely familiar about him; though truth-be-told, most Númenoreans were alike as close kin. However, the Ranger's attentive presence underscored the fact that the time when Russ could have any affect on all this was vanishing swiftly.

"It is hard to know who to trust," the giant said slowly. "The world is changing and things happen in it that sometimes I feel move too fast for me. Another man also promised to hear the truth, and he has proven false. But Nik trusts you, Lord Goldur."

Soberly Goldur replied, "Then I shall endeavour to be worthy of that trust, Russbeorn. This day the truth shall be heard."

The watchful Ranger leant to whisper in Goldur's ear, and the law lord abruptly chuckled and cast a glance towards his table, where Willelmus stood waiting with his mouth tightly pursed.

"Ah, yes, our Willelmus abhors laxity, especially in matters of scheduling and decorum. Very well, let us take our places." Looking at Russ once more, Goldur added, "I will not ask you to trust me, sir. I will simply hope I have earned your trust by the day's end."

With that, he turned, Kerwin at his side, and walked across the now-empty floor. The Ranger, however, paused to meet Russ' troubled gaze and offered a grave nod.

"Truth, Master Russbeorn," he said, "is the only coin by which honourable men negotiate. Be at ease, for Lord Goldur is an honourable man."

Before Russ could respond to that curious statement, the Ranger had gone, striding after Goldur. The Beorning sighed and lowered himself to sit between Celebsul and Halbarad, dwarfing them both with his bulk.

"I just wish your Steward had kept your promises, Captain Halbarad," he said.

Startled, Halbarad stared at him. "What promise was that?"

Russ' look was dark. "To come and hear Nik."

"But he -."

Whatever Halbarad might have said was lost when Willelmus' voice rang out once more.

"Hear ye, hear ye! Court is now in session on this, the twenty-ninth day of October, the third year of rule by our Lord King, Aragorn Elessar, long may he reign in justice and mercy. Rise now for Lord Goldur and our Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor."

Amidst the shuffle of shoes and rustle of clothing, Nik's smile nearly illuminated the entire room. Russ could only stare as Goldur's Ranger companion took a tall chair behind the law lord and shed his plain brown cloak. Thus revealed were fine clothes of black and royal blue and a jerkin blazoned with The White Tree. Now, only now, did Russ recognise the man he had met briefly many months before.

Faramir of Gondor had come. He would hear the truth of the matter of Nik the Uruk-hai. Russ' grin grew slowly, but when it came, it stayed.

xxx

Under Goldur's succinct but kindly questioning, the events of that awful January day nearly a year past came at last to light. First he read a brief report setting the scene. The spare words tautly detailed how Darien and his men arrived in Ithilien on their self-appointed crusade to eradicate dangerous fugitive orcs. In an effort to locate the hardscrabble little band of orcs with whom Sev sometimes traded, he and his men confronted her on the road. Thereupon events spiralled out of control. Grady's impulsive rage rendered Sev an unconscious prisoner, while Nik appeared doomed for a speedy death. Yet nature and fate conspired against that doom. Sev's and Nik's friends pursued them through the storm, and then the very mountain in which Darien and his men sought refuge collapsed.

As with the initial hearing, Nik gave the first testimony, relating clearly and simply how the situation had appeared from his point of view. When the landslide stopped, Darien and half his men stood outside with Sev's friends, whilst the other half – and Nik and Sev – were trapped inside the buried cave. Nik's voice grew sombre but no less steady as he told of Grady's madness and subsequent death at his hands.

From there, the narrative of events passed to others. In low tones Sev confirmed the uruk's matter-of-fact recollections, and added details of her own. She described the fear and tension within the cave, a man dead, others injured, the survivors gripped by terror of more cave-ins and the very real threat of a slow death by suffocation. Grady, a man already prone to violence, swiftly became unhinged by the closeness of conditions and the terrible uncertainty of survival. He labelled Sev a witch, he cursed Nik and at last, he sprang to the attack with a naked sword in his hand.

But Darien's friend and second-in-command, Landis, intervened. Almost faster than words could tell, his attempt to stop violence exploded into a quick, brutal fight that left him mortally wounded. Grady in his madness murdered Landis. Only Nik's swift interference stopped the crazed man from continuing his attack and turning on Sev. The little Uruk broke his bonds and killed Grady with the only tools at his command - bare hands and a jagged stone.

When Sev's voice failed, the others took up the grim tale. Horus spoke in steady, liquid tones of all that befell them in the cave, his dark eyes glistening as he told of Landis' slow death and how Sev kept vigil by the dying man's side. Next, Bevin's brisk narrative confirmed the stated facts. A much-sobered Tom and Ham followed, each giving their accounts in their own plain fashion.

When Ham had done, he said, "Landis was a right good man. He shouldn't have died like that. Not after making it through the war and all. And not killed by one of his own men."

Evan testified as well, his youthful voice only cracking once as he spoke of his own fears, his broken leg, and Sev's kindness to him.

"Grady was often trouble," the lad said. "He argued with Lord Darien at every chance and he didn't listen to what he was told."

Goldur leaned forward with his elbows to either side of his page of notes, his plump fingers clasped before him. "Am I correct in believing that your parents were killed in an orc raid?"

"Yes, lord."

"Did Nik's actions with Grady frighten you?"

"Oh, yes, sir! It was an awful thing to see - all of it was, sir. Landis took a long time to die."

"Yet you bear no animosity towards Nik for what he did?"

Evan scowled, his glance flickering briefly to his brother watching from the gallery. "Nik saved Mistress Sevilodorf's life, sir. Once Grady stabbed Landis, I don't know what else would have stopped him. Fact is, sir, if it weren't for Grady, I bet none of this would have happened."

Throughout, Lord Faramir listened from his high seat and spoke not a word. His keen grey eyes studied each witness' face as if gauging their veracity, but the calmness of his expression suggested a gentle empathy, and perhaps only Sev knew any disquiet beneath his gaze. Valthaur meanwhile sat as if graven in stone, showing nothing, moving never save to muffle an occasional cough or wheeze.

Last of all, Lord Goldur called Osric to present his account. By now, lanterns had been lit around the hall as the sun sank towards the west. Succulent odours of cooking wafted from the kitchens, but the cook laboured only for the Rangers who must dine elsewhere in barracks, so the stomachs of spectators growled without relief.

Osric sat up cockily, and grinned towards the audience, but when he spoke, his version of events rang in such striking discord to all previous evidence that it fell into chilly silence. Nor did he exhibit the same sureness as before, several times repeating himself or losing the train of his thought. In each instance, Lord Goldur simply redirected him by saying, "Please continue your testimony," and reading back his last phrase from Kerwin's quickly sketched notes.

Frustrated, Osric's face grew flushed and he hunched in his chair, spewing with ever-growing venom. "It wanted Grady to go mad – it wanted us all mad. I saw it in the creature's eyes. It scared us into putting out most of the lights and when the cave was nearly dark, the creature plotted to turn us on each other. It -."

"The facts, Master Osric," Goldur repeated firmly. "I need to hear facts, not supposition."

At a cool-eyed look from Faramir, Osric's vitriol began to falter, his voice sharpening. He shot several nervous glances towards Lord Valthaur, who simply watched the proceedings with the unblinking stillness of a serpent. The room remained painfully hushed while Osric painted Landis' death as a tragic accident and then detailed Grady's demise as the brutal murder of an innocent, desperate man.

In closing, Osric sat with fists clenched on his knees, eyes bright with anger. "And there we all sat in the stinking dark, with Grady's head smashed on the floor and Landis dying. I saw that orc's face - I saw it, and I tell you he smiled! The orc sat with that witch woman and watched Landis die too, and it was glad - glad at what had happened! And not a one of us dared fight back, because we knew all its friends waited outside to murder us, if we did."

In the silence that followed, Russ' visible ire seethed like steam and Sev's glare could have melted glass. Lord Goldur, however, simply reached for the sheaf of documents Kerwin handed to him and thumbed the pages slowly.

Then the law lord looked over the top of his papers and asked, "You are quite certain, Master Osric, that you have given truthful testimony here today?"

"Of course I am!"

"Hm." Goldur briefly pursed his mouth to a small 'o' between rosy cheeks. "I find it curious that your evidence differs so markedly from … goodness, that of six other people." He looked up again. "Can you explain the discrepancy?"

Osric slouched sullenly in his seat. "No accountin' for some people, I reckon."

"Ah. I see." Goldur's gaze sharpened as he looked upon this final witness. "Then you have nothing further to add? No clarification of any statements to make?"

Scowling, Osric replied, "I said my piece."

"Very well. You may step down."

Osric left the witness seat with a dour, heavy tread and looked neither left nor right when he resumed his place among the other witnesses. Ham made a point of curling his lip and edging away from his erstwhile comrade. Meanwhile Goldur spread the papers across the table and settled into a whispered conference with Kerwin and Willelmus, the latter two pushing various pages of notes forward for his examination.

As the minutes passed, the spectators began to whisper and shift in their seats, creating a rustling undercurrent of sound.

Evan leaned to whisper, "Is he going to adjourn or something? It's past supper time."

Sev shook her head and surreptitiously wiped her hands on her knees. "I don't think so. He would have said so by now."

The rumble of conversation grew as Goldur continued to ponder and brood. Numerous eyes shifted to Faramir, but the steward simply sat with his elbow on one arm of his chair, his chin in his hand, and projected the very essence of detached patience.

At last, Kerwin gathered the papers together and Lord Goldur leaned back in his seat to sweep the gallery with a glance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the hour is quite late and I thank you for your tolerance." He laced his chubby fingers across his ample belly. "Today we have heard the testimony of witnesses to a most extraordinary and unfortunate series of events. Crowning the affair is the matter of an orc, an Uruk-hai, slaying a man. Too many times in the deeps of history this sad occurrence has taken place, but this time, there was one fundamental difference."

Goldur pushed his bulk forward and propped his elbows on the table once more. His forthright gaze suggested that he spoke to the entire room as if chatting with dear old neighbours.

"This time … Nik, formerly of Isengard, struck a fatal blow to save a life other than his own. He fought to defend a woman." Goldur's hand tapped the quill pen lying at his fingertips. "Having listened to all the evidence and weighing these several accounts against each other, it is my considered belief that Nik is innocent of any malice. Furthermore, it is the ruling of this hearing that he be hereby exonerated of any suspicion. He will face no charge of murder and is therefore free - ."

A rumble of sound swept the room and Goldur raised his voice. "Free as a citizen of this realm, subject to all the laws, rights and appurtenances thereof inherent to a free man."

The rumble burst into an uproar when a babble of voices and exclamations filled the room, punctuated by a smattering of cheers and even a piercing whistle - which proved to be from young Jasimir, beaming widely beneath an absurdly plumed hat while his father, Cameroth, grinned wryly at his side. Nik meanwhile sat stiff as could be with a grin nearly dismounting his ears from his head.

"We did it, Teach!" he crowed, but his small voice was nearly lost in the tumult.

Goldur smiled warmly and raised both hands, patting the air until the racket subsided. "I have further stipulation in the matter of Osric of Silverbrook."

The thickset man jerked upright in astonishment as Goldur spoke on. "Proof has been given to my satisfaction that one Khint, late employed as clerk to Lord Valthaur, did wilfully and maliciously tamper with the testimony of witnesses prior to these hearings. Whereas said witnesses, save one, have recanted previous testimony and indicated remorse … I must find Osric in contempt of these proceedings. He is hereby sentenced to thirty days labour, duties subject to the discretion of Captain Tarannon."

A Ranger's heavy hand clamped Osric's shoulder and sealed his temper behind his teeth. But the wave of chuckles and grins surely churned in his belly.

Meanwhile Goldur said, "Nik, would you please come forward?"

The little Uruk-hai fairly bounded from his seat and hastened to stand before the portly law lord. Goldur looked at him, eyes twinkling.

"Nik, I would ask you one thing. What will you do with your freedom, now that it has been confirmed?"

The room grew perfectly still and Nik fidgeted as he realised all eyes were again fixed on him. He glanced aside towards Russ, who nodded slowly in encouragement. With a quick nod in reply, Nik faced Goldur once more.

"Well, I'd like to learn more about bees. Teach - that is, Russ, has been showing me all about his bees. And I want to see how our winter wheat does, since I've never planted any before. Plus there are some loose shingles I need to replace on the barn." He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his mouth and added, "And I think I would like to go fishing. It's been a while since we went fishing."

Grins and murmurs rippled about the room at the idea of an orc, even a very undersized one, going fishing. Yet there was earnestness to his simple ambitions, which those with open minds could not miss. Goldur certainly did not.

"I confess I've thought of a second question, Nik. Do you think you will ever know violence again?"

Nik's expression sobered and he heaved a sharp sigh. "I hope not. I'd rather just be happy with my friends. I never really knew what happy was, before."

Goldur's round face softened in an almost paternal smile. "Then I wish you many years of happiness, Nik."

"Can I say one more thing?" Nik shifted from one foot to the other, glancing at Goldur and down again.

Goldur lifted an open palm permissively. "Of course."

Taking a deep breath, Nik squared his shoulders and lifted his eyes to Faramir's chair. The steward gazed steadily back.

"Lord Steward," said Nik, "I want to thank you for coming to hear the truth for me. My friends Halbarad and Anardil said you would come and listen, and you did. So thank you."

Only now did Faramir stir, rising from his seat and rounding the table in long, silent strides. He halted before the diminutive orc and looked down at him with a kindly air.

"We have seen the world change, have we not?" he asked.

"Yes." Nik nodded as he peered up at the tall Man. "But it's all getting better now. Even if bad things still sometimes happen."

"Then you and I must strive to keep bettering our world." Faramir turned the full force of his keen grey Numenorean gaze upon the small being before him. "Can you do that, Nik formerly of Isengard?"

"I'll try. Teach - that is, Russ is helping me learn. And now I have other friends, too."

A small smile touched Faramir's lips as he followed Nik's quick glance towards Russ, and the elf, hobbit, orcs and men seated with him. The steward's quick scan likewise touched on Sev and Horus at the other side of the room.

"Indeed you do," he replied. "And thus we both have our tasks. I'll do my best at mine, and I hope you'll do the same with yours."

A smile flashed onto Nik's face. "Oh, I will!"

"May you dwell long in peace and plenty." Then Faramir of Ithilien lifted his gaze to encompass the entire hall and announced, "Now let us call this day's work good and retire to enjoy our suppers!"

Chairs and benches scraped the floor and voices babbled excitedly as people rose to their feet, where one huge figure towered above them all. Russbeorn, late of the Misty Mountains and now of the Wetwang, eased through the crowd to stand over the table where Goldur gathered the last of his papers. The portly law lord looked up, his expression warmly welcoming despite the anxiety suddenly on Kerwin's and Willelmus' faces.

"Nik was right to trust you," rumbled Russ. "I am glad my suspicions were unfounded."

"Thank you, Master Russ," replied Goldur genially. "It pleases me to have passed the test."

Russ looked down for a beat then asked, "Do you like mead?"

Lord Goldur positively beamed. "As a matter of fact, I have sought long for a source of truly fine mead. I find a glass aids my digestion. Do you know where some may be had?"

During their conversation, a queue of chattering people assembled in the aisle. As the tumult flowed towards the door, one voice rose above the others. In the most plaintive tones possibly ever to emit from an orc's mouth, Lugbac's grating baritone cried out:

"But what just _happened?_"

xxx

TBC ….


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-one 

_Henneth Annûn_

_The Inn of the Whistling Dog_

Though there were some who muttered worriedly about the verdict, they were for the most part hushed by their neighbours, many of whom made a point of offering congratulations or bidding the friends and comrades of Nik good night. Among those offering his well wishes was Cameroth, flanked by his son, the exotically plumaged Jasimir.

"If you've a mind," Cameroth said, "Late though it's getting, I'd like to set a proper spread for you folks." The innkeeper's wry grin tilted to include Nik and Gubbitch. "The whole lot of you, I reckon."

Alfgard glanced wistfully at his companions' eager smiles, but replied with regret, "I suspect Linnet is about to come looking for me. The rest of you go on."

Knowing the cost of such an invitation from a man who witnessed the atrocities of the siege of Minas Tirith, Sev smiled warmly and replied for the group. "Thank you, Cameroth. We would be glad to sup at your table."

With a whoop, Jasimir raced ahead to warn the cook, while the rest continued at a more sedate pace.

When they arrived at The Whistling Dog, Cameroth ushered the late party in with a wide grin and a sweep of his hand.

"Got the place pretty much to yourselves tonight," he said. "Cook is already scorching pots and pans, so I'll set him to work burning in your honour."

The succulent aromas wafting from said kitchen, however, proved that the tardy supper for Nik, Sev and their friends would be nothing less than delicious.

Cameroth stood smiling while, for the first time ever, orcs crossed his threshold. Times had changed, and continued to do so, and those who did not change with the times would be left behind. Besides, if he tried very, very hard, he could imagine these misshapen friends of his friends as people rather than orcs. Having witnessed Nik's conduct at the hearing, the burden of loathing that Cameroth carried had eased a little. And on how many occasions had his son, Jasimir, said that the likes of Gubbitch were trustworthy and even wise? The hard fact was that Cameroth owed the life of Jasimir to Corbat and Lorgarth, and Sira's to Lugbac.

Gubbitch halted in the doorway to beam a multi-hued grin. "Tha's a reet nice pub, landlord."

For a second or two, Cameroth stared at the outstretched, gnarled hand of friendship, and then he shook it. "Thank you …Master Gubbitch, is it not?"

"Aye, that's me, Gubbitch."

A quick round of introductions followed for those who had not yet been properly introduced to Cameroth.

Moments later, Lord Goldur, with Willelmus trailing and Kerwin smiling nervously beside him, joined the impromptu party. The only person missing from the group was Osric, whom Darien paid his due wages and left to the devices of Captain Tarannon. Osric's first punitive duty, the captain solemnly told them, would be scraping the garrison stables of the entire year's worth of manure build-up.

However, here and now there would be only a good meal and the company of friends. Jasimir and a wide-eyed, but smiling, brunette named as Pansy waited on the guests, while the titian-haired Sira rested in a chair. Sira appeared positively a-beam with good spirits despite the tightly wrapped ankle resting upon a low stool before her. One could only imagine that her Ted's doting care had much to do with her unaccustomed cheer.

Darien, Horus and the six remaining Silverbrook men took their places at the long tables with Nik and Russ, Sev and Anardil, Halbarad, Celebsul and Erin. Even Lugbac sat gingerly over on the hearthstones beneath Gubbitch's stern eye. Willelmus cast many an askance look, but the big orc managed not to bend or dent the tin plate on which his meal was served, and only licked the plate once.

By way of contrast, Nik's table manners proved equal to any, aside from the fastidious chamberlain who hailed Jasimir to ask for a finger bowl. The lad dutifully obliged, but rolled his eyes in disbelief to Sira as he passed.

For Erin, the subject required a more overt response. "Goodness, Master Willelmus. You are washing away the delicious goose fat. If you get a cold this winter, you will know why."

After they indulged in a between-courses sweetmeat, the hobbit's look of horror as Willelmus reached to the bowl to cleanse sugary cream from his fingertips proved sufficient to make him withdraw his hand quickly. With a resigned shrug, he delicately sucked the sweetness from his index finger and thumb then arched his brows for permission to rinse his hand.

Erin smiled regally. "I do think finger bowls are a lovely idea once all the traces of food are gone." And so saying, she stretched across the table to dabble her little fingers in the water.

Lugbac watched all this with interest. Finally he looked up at Gubbitch and opened his mouth to ask a question.

"No!" said his chieftain, firmly. "Stick to thy own manners, and stay put."

So it was that friends and comrades feasted without care and drew the very best comfort from each other's company. Evan and Neal conspired to keep the table laughing with their youthful antics, and Nik's piping voice rang out as merrily as any. Russ meanwhile indulged in the gastronomic bliss of a perfect salmon steak, so huge it threatened to slide off his plate.

When the meal was finally done, Lord Goldur clapped his hands for attention. He smiled at the gathering, rosy-cheeked, while the merry chatter of voices subsided.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "it is my wish to salute the courage of the souls who stood forth this day to see justice done. Even –" he held one plump finger rigidly upright – "when that justice might prove unpopular in the public mind. We have taken yet another step on the long road towards a better, more peaceable future. Master Cameroth, if you please?"

The innkeeper nodded and disappeared, to reappear moments later with four bottles of wine clutched in his arms, while Jasimir followed with two more. They set the bottles at intervals along the tables, Darien reaching forward to pick up the one nearest and study it.

"Dorwinion," he murmured appreciatively.

"Indeed." Goldur smiled so that his cheeks bunched like apples. "Lord Valthaur is not the only one with a taste for the finer things. Cups, everyone."

When all had poured, even Lugbac gingerly clutching a plain clay mug in his clawed fingers, Goldur raised his cup before him.

"My friends," he said cheerfully, "I give you Nik. The first orc in recorded history to come before the Steward of Gondor and have his innocence affirmed – and not only that, but he claims to have enjoyed the experience."

If Nik's rough complexion permitted a blush, surely he would have turned scarlet when laughter swept the table and glasses lifted high. After the toast was drunk, Erin tapped her spoon ringing against her cup, eyes dancing.

"And I have another toast," she proclaimed. "To Lord Goldur, the Man with a Hobbit's heart!"

Lugbac looked stricken as he peered into his empty cup. However, he immediately regained a snaggle-toothed grin when Gubbitch judiciously splashed a small dollop therein.

"To Lord Goldur!" echoed Halbarad, and the cups rose once more.

Toasts rounded the table several times over before the last of the bottles emptied, cheers being drunk to everything from Russ' winter wheat to Erin's Great-aunt Posey. Fortunately for all heads, the cook's excellent bread pudding sopped up some of the strong wine, and a fine time was had by all.

As the fire burned warmly in the great hearth, contented bellies and satisfied smiles became the order of the evening. When the door to the inn opened to a final late guest, those within felt almost too comfortable to look up. However, Willelmus' startled cry jolted them all to awareness.

"My Lord Faramir! Oh, good evening to you, sir!"

The young steward smiled greeting to the various exclamations of "my lord!" then he shut the door behind him.

"Please remain as you are," Faramir said, walking towards the hearth. His easy glance hesitated only minutely at the sight of Lugbac crouched there, licking whiskey sauce from his fingers. "I wish only a few moments of your time, in order to clarify some matters for my reports."

He nodded thanks as Cameroth hastily turned a chair for his comfort, and then sat to look over the curious faces and scattered remnants of supper. Reaching into a pocket he produced a battered fold of paper, which he tapped upon his knee.

"I've Captain Halbarad's report on the affair regarding Margul's demise, but it is always best to hear events from those who lived them." His clear grey gaze settled briefly on Sev, then moved to Sira, who promptly flushed to the roots of her hair. "Ladies, if you will, I should like to begin with you."

For possibly the first time in her life, the barmaid failed at words and appealed silently for help. Low chuckles rippled around her as Faramir smiled, and Sev sighed before taking the lead. At least this time she sat among friends and her inquisitor looked more like a man just in from fishing than the second highest lord in the realm.

Briskly she told of Raberlon's murder, followed by hers and Sira's subsequent imprisonment amidst Margul's orc minions. Of particular interest to Faramir were Margul's insinuations that he knew details of Sev's experiences that no stranger should, and that she had inconvenienced some mysterious 'client' of his.

"You have had no previous dealing with Margul?" the Steward asked once more.

"None, sir. Erin conversed with him on the streets of Henneth Annûn last March, but until yesterday I had never laid eyes on the man."

Faramir regarded her steadily. "Who then have you inconvenienced?"

"Lately?" Sev responded. She frowned at the ill-muffled smiles that flashed about the room.

Lines of controlled merriment crinkled the corners of Faramir's eyes as he said, "Within the scope of these events."

"That far back?" She sighed and lowered her head in thought.

After a few moments, she asked, "Are you willing to discount Anardil, Halbarad and the rest at The Burping Troll? I mean, they get angry when I argue over the restrictions they try to place upon me, but I doubt they've reached the point of hiring assassins."

Faramir glanced from Anardil to Halbarad and said, "Speaking from experience, they will have entertained occasional thoughts of locking you in a closet. But I agree we might leave them out of consideration."

"Very well. There was Grady. If I hadn't been rude to him, perhaps none of this would have happened. Then, of course, Darien and his men. Captain Tarannon. And Lord Valthaur."

"The captain did make mention of some escaped pigs." At Faramir's comment, Lugbac hunched down and averted his eyes. The steward's expression sobered. "As well as the orc attack last spring just outside the village."

"A circumstance that by all indications was instigated by Margul," Anardil said with a shrug. "Though we can find no direct proof."

Faramir nodded then leaned back. "How, other than your testimony at the trial concerning orc's rights, have you inconvenienced Lord Valthaur?"

Sev's eyes dropped beneath his gaze. "His lordship was not pleased by the delaying of the hearing."

"Why would his lordship hold you responsible for a man's illness? Even one so conveniently timed?"

Was there a faint emphasis on the word 'conveniently' or did it only seem so in the face of Sev's feelings of guilt? She studiously avoided looking at Lord Goldur's sympathetic, fatherly face.

"I know not the workings of Lord Valthaur's mind," Sev said hesitantly, "but Margul made mention of searching the apothecary's records. It is entirely possible that Margul acted solely on his own and sought to lay a false trail with suggestions of a powerful client."

"Perhaps." Faramir paused until Sev again met his gaze. "One final question. Was Master Horus' illness faked?"

Behind his eyes was knowledge of the truth, but with the phrasing of his question he offered her a route she could take with honesty. Gratefully, she accepted it.

"No, sir. Horus was indeed sick."

The steward's firm little nod suggested he accepted that statement at face value, and the questioning moved on. Of Sira, Faramir asked little, for it became evident within a few words that the terror of being a captive of Margul's orcs might never leave her. Subsequently Halbarad, Darien and Anardil shared the chore of detailing the search for the missing women, and the firing of Alfgard's barn during Margul's attempt to snatch Odbut and Cullen.

"I've no doubt whatsoever," said Anardil grimly, "that Margul intended to see them both dead, when his purposes were served."

"The boy is safe now?"

"Yes, home with his parents." Anardil grimaced wryly. "Odbut meanwhile is reportedly gnawing on the walls of the icehouse, while he awaits your pleasure."

"And you say earlier the orc reacted violently to the mention of Lord Valthaur's name, when you tried to question Cullen in his presence?"

"Like a mad thing," said Halbarad grimly. "I've wished we knew a way to discern what unholy intelligence he is privy to, but alas, there is very little civilized men can threaten an orc with, that he has not already faced before."

"Unfortunately …" Faramir lifted the fold of paper he had been turning in his fingers. "I believe we have that missing piece to the puzzle here."

Halbarad and Anardil both recognised the note they found in Margul's belongings, with its plain wax seal and ornately-sketched sigil.

"Is it what I fear?" asked Halbarad.

A grim nod formed Faramir's reply. "I have seen this mark too many times to ever mistake it for another. Lord Goldur, would you kindly confirm?"

Goldur's jowls sagged heavily as he looked at the cartouche marking the note. "Yes. It is unmistakably Lord Valthaur's."

"Thank you. I need only one more link in the chain. Willelmus?"

The skinny chamberlain straightened where he stood. "Yes, my lord?"

"Do you recognise this note?"

Willelmus took the offered paper and turned it for scrutiny. His mouth pursed in a tight moue of distaste ere he responded.

"Yes, lord. This is the message which Lord Valthaur bid me to deliver to Master Drath of The Black Caldron."

"It was found in Master Margul's pockets, when they searched his possessions." Faramir watched his chamberlain's face register shock. "Would you care to read its contents?"

The older man looked startled, but then gingerly opened the paper to read. What little colour he had washed from his face.

"Oh, good heavens." Willelmus swayed, and for an instant it appeared he might faint. Looking up, his eyes were enormous. "My lord, I cannot imagine what this cryptic nonsense means – no, alas, I do know. I swear if I had any inkling what this -."

"Peace, Willelmus." Faramir rose and gently plucked the offending note from his chamberlain's nerveless fingers. "You could not know that you served a false master – one which I, myself, sent you to assist. We have all been duped."

His look became commanding as he scanned each face in the room. "I would ask that you keep discussion of this matter between yourselves. While investigation goes forward and I study my findings further, nothing of Lord Valthaur's affairs needs to become public gossip."

"You are protecting the puppet master's master?"

A deep voice, as yet unheard-from, struck a new and grimmer note to the evening. Faramir sought its source while Russ rose to his full, formidable height.

"I am not," Faramir replied.

"Then why do you shield him?" Long-pent frustration simmered in Russ' deep-set eyes. "Should a thief not be punished so his neighbours know the thief is caught?"

Faramir lowered his gaze briefly in thought and looked at the huge man again. "Would it be your wish that he can never hurt, or cause the hurt of another person again?"

Russ hesitated, weighing the words for hidden meaning, seeking duplicity in cool grey eyes that oddly seemed to look at and know the trouble in his heart. Did he wish more? Had he allowed vengeance to take root in his mind like a noxious weed? He glanced briefly down at Nik's earnest face before facing the steward again.

"Yes," he rumbled quietly. "That would be my wish."

"It is also mine," Faramir replied. "Let me uphold the law of my lord King, and let the King himself see truth or falsehood as Lord Valthaur speaks it. For, I promise you, no man lies twice before Aragorn, the King Elessar."

And in that moment, Russ the Beorning saw the grace of lost Númenor shimmering in Faramir's eyes, as if reflecting the distant, steady light of powers greater yet. There still remained justice in the world older than the memories of living men.

"So be it," said Russ, and at long last, his heart began to settle back into its old tranquillity.

Faramir now turned his attention to the Haradrim. "You seemed quite recovered at the hearing, Master Horus. I trust the illness caused no lasting harm."

Touching his forehead in a gesture of respect, Horus responded, "I trust so too, thanks to the care offered by Sevilodorf and Celebsul, and the fine tonics sent to me by the apothecary."

Satisfied by the response, Faramir smiled acknowledgement at the silver-haired elf and glanced once more towards Sev. "Then I bid you all good night." He rose to his feet and drew his cloak about him. "Peace and fair dreams."

With that he inclined his head in the briefest of bows and turned away even as the others hastened to respond. Willelmus magically appeared to open the door for Faramir, and then followed his master out into the night. The door thudded gently closed behind him, and with his exit the entire room seemed to exhale.

"Well," said Erin. "That was certainly an interesting thing to follow dessert."

"Indeed," observed Celebsul with a twinkle in his eye. "Perhaps if we had offered him some bread pudding, Lord Faramir might have lingered."

Sev snorted and shot the elf a warning glance. "Don't put ideas in her head, or she'll be after him with a plate and none of us will get any rest." She stood and pressed both hands to her back. "Which I intend to do directly after a long, hot bath."

"Bath," sighed Darien. "I had one last night, but I must be getting old, because another one sounds like just the thing."

Horus clinked the backs of his fingernails against an empty wine bottle and humour glinted in his dark eyes. "Unless," he said, "you chance to fall asleep in your bath. I shan't be responsible for you then."

"Mm." Darien grinned wryly. "You may have a point. To bed for me, then, and my thanks to our most excellent host."

A chorus of gratitude and compliments echoed on the heels of that statement. Cameroth stood beaming while benches scraped and his guests got to their feet to begin collecting cloaks and coats. Kerwin scrambled to assist Lord Goldur in rising, the two of them laughing together almost like father and son. Jasimir came to stand beside his father, and the innkeeper draped an arm around the lad's shoulders.

"It's been a good night, Da," said Jasimir, grinning. "Don't you think so?"

"Yes," replied Cameroth, and he scanned the cheerful faces of Man, Elf, Orc and Hobbit, each bright with goodwill such as he had never thought to see mingled, let alone under his very roof. "A good night to a very good day."

Thus Nik and Russ, their friends from The Burping Troll, and Darien with his lads from Silverbrook retired after a long, tension-fraught afternoon. The peril was past, justice was served. The morrow would bring its own cares, but for this night they would rest without trouble or worry.

xxx

Lord Valthaur sat alone within his room, a silver tea service gleaming at his elbow, a delicate saucer in one hand and a matching teacup in the other. The hour grew late and warm light from lamps about the room bathed his fleshy features in deceptive softness and shone on the rich material of his robes. His plump fingers were steady as they lifted the cup from its saucer to his lips and down again, porcelain meeting porcelain with a soft click. His keen eyes never left the door.

When he heard footsteps thud out in the hallway, he took one deep breath then carefully set the teacup aside. The law lord arranged the hem and sleeves of his robe, and folded his hands in his lap. Thus, he sat serenely when a knock rapped upon his door.

"Come!" he commanded.

The latch rattled and the door opened to admit the tall, grave figure of Faramir. Two stern-faced Rangers remained outside in the corridor. Valthaur's expression did not change.

"I have been expecting you, my lord," he rasped, and brought one hand lightly to his chest. "Forgive me that I do not rise."

As Faramir closed the door, he shook his head. "No need, Lord Valthaur." He dipped his chin to study the corpulent man with some concern. "Are you feeling unwell? Shall I fetch someone to tend you?"

The briefest frown touched Valthaur's brow and tightened his mouth ere he waved a be-ringed hand in dismissal. "Naught but the complaints that ever plague me. Now please do me the favour of revealing the nature of your visit. I am quite sure my health is not at issue."

The young steward's expression cooled. "Very well. I would not wish this news to be brought by lesser hands."

Long fingers reached into his jerkin and drew forth a fold of parchment sealed in silver wax. "I regret the necessity, but you are hereby requested to hold yourself ready for questioning, regarding a forthcoming investigation into various irregularities in matters under your care."

Faramir offered the sealed page, which Valthaur leaned to take calmly, the adamant ring on his finger winking in lamplight. The steward straightened and continued quietly.

"You will of course be treated with all courtesy due your rank and station. When you return to Minas Tirith, you will oblige me by remaining strictly to your own quarters. I will assure that you are informed of all developments in your case as they occur, and you will be granted the advocate of your choice."

Valthaur might have been a vast, squat figure carved of alabaster and draped in regal curtains. Only his mouth moved as he asked, "House arrest, my lord steward? I suppose I should be grateful."

"I wish you no ill, Lord Valthaur," said Faramir evenly. "Indeed, I regret the need of any investigation at all. Your service in my father's council and to Gondor is of notable record."

A slow blink formed Valthaur's only reaction. He brushed the seal with his thumb.

"When I open this, what will I find, besides the order for my arrest?" The tightness around Valthaur's mouth grew more pronounced as his tone became brittle. "What charges will be constructed and construed from the fanciful deductions of men who resent the powers set above them?"

Faramir could not miss the lines of battle thus drawn, but he met the older man's eyes with composure. "You will find a fair copy of a recent communication from you to one Margul, a merchant late of Minas Tirith. Further study of it may link to several injuries and the murder of Raberlon of Rohan. You will also find notations relating to previous cases you handled, which in subsequent review have revealed a certain pattern of … peculiar happenchance or accidents."

"Happenchance." Valthaur snorted. His eyes glittered coldly while he looked up at Faramir. "I will have you know, sir, that happenchance and accidents will not be enough to see me removed from my rightful place -." His breath soughed raggedly when he plunged on. "A place that I have laboured for more than forty years to earn – earn, mind you, by the toils of my own hands and my own wits."

Mottled colour tinged his cheeks as he sucked another harsh gasp to spit, "Bring forth the liars who dare speak such fallacies. Bring them all! I will not only see them dishonoured, I will dangle them before the world as the charlatans they are!"

Alarm pinched Faramir's features when the obese man's chest heaved noisily. "Please, Lord Valthaur, you must calm yourself!"

"Calm myself." Valthaur's wheezing voice sounded harsh as a badger's snarl. "Know you this, my lord steward. I will not suffer myself to be humiliated before the eyes of a cruel and ravening crowd. I will not be mocked!"

"No, lord, you will not." The young steward raised a reassuring hand. "I promise you that this will be handled with the greatest discretion, and that the King, himself, will be available to hear your arguments."

"Of course he will." Clear disdain flashed with the podgy hand Valthaur waved between them, and he held the other hand to his chest as he laboured for breath. "Please, my lord, leave me now. I am an old man and I wish the dignity of what solitude may be left to me."

Faramir stepped closer and refilled the teacup, holding it while Valthaur leaned heavily forward to suck another gasp of air. When at last he sat back and appeared to breathe evenly, Faramir offered the cup.

Gravely he said, "No hardship will be visited upon you, Lord Valthaur. On this you have my word."

Valthaur took the teacup and sipped with the appearance of gratitude. When he looked up, the unhealthy colour was receding and his face seemed composed.

"Of course, my lord. I would expect nothing less from you."

Nought remained to be said, and Faramir gave a courteous inclination of his head ere he turned to the door. When it closed and silence descended once more, Valthaur set aside the still-unopened letter.

"I expect nothing less," he said grimly. "And I expect nothing more. No, my lord, I will not be mocked."

When he placed the teacup back onto its saucer, porcelain clattered with jarring loudness.

xxx

TBC ….


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-two**

_October 30th - morning_

_Henneth Annûn _

Sunrise at the Ranger headquarters bustled with activity, the yard echoing to the clatter of heavy hooves, the jangle of harness and the rumble of iron-shod wheels. However, at least one man counted the rumpus as worth the cost, for it meant he would have his headquarters back in order, and no longer overrun by demanding, unwanted guests.

Captain Tarannon watched in relief when Lord Valthaur's ornate coach rumbled out of the village. Accompanying it rode an even greater number of soldiers than when it arrived. In reality, the carriage now served as a mobile prison taking Valthaur and his clerk to Minas Tirith, where they would wait the slow turns of Justice's wheels. A sturdy, iron-bound wooden crate fastened to the back of the coach enclosed the half-mad orc that had been dragged, kicking and clawing, from Alfgard's icehouse. Few people witnessed the pre-dawn departure of Prince Faramir, Lord Goldur and their aides, though many had since ridden the same road towards their various homes. Thus the last of the curious crowds and nobles left Henneth Annûn.

In the ensuing silence, Tarannon took a deep breath, and could almost taste peace. For those outsiders who remained, the folk of The Burping Troll and their friends, matters of justice at least were complete. And this morning, Raberlon would be laid to rest in the honour he deserved. Tomorrow, the Ranger Captain should be able to walk these streets without fear of reports of kidnappings and ambushes, or giant orcs frightening pigs, or mysterious illnesses from Harad, or talking horses, or …

A huff of laughter shook Tarannon's body. He glanced around to ensure no one could witness his spontaneity, whereupon he jumped in the air and clicked the heels of his boots together. Then he walked sedately away.

xxx

A chill breeze blew and a bright sun shone upon a green field at the outskirts of Henneth Annûn. In its midst stood a great, stark mound of earth set round about with river stones and marked with a single spear thrust into the ground. One day the mound would be clad in green grass and the new blooms of evermind, but for now, the wounded earth glared as raw as the unspoken grief in living hearts.

Alfgard stood, gusts tangling his greying hair, and Linnet beside him with their younger children clustered around. The men and boys who had long worked with the honoured dead also gathered near, silent and stern upon tall grey horses. At Linnet's other hand, Sevilodorf paid grim tribute, only her tightly clenched hands bearing witness to her own grief for the man who gave his life to save hers. From time to time her fingers caressed the braided horsehair belt she wore: once a gift from Raberlon as a remembrance of her mare, Dream, lost in the orc attack those months before. The belt would now serve the additional purpose as a reminder of the man who had given the ultimate loyalty to the family.

Looking about the gathering, Alfgard's pale eyes also noted the more unlikely guests: Halbarad and Anardil with the stamp of Númenor on their sombre faces; Erin's round hobbit features crimped in sorrow; the elf, Celebsul, pale and sad; Lord Darien with his head bowed, while beside him Horus wore the white of mourning with a cotton _hattah_ wrapped about his dark head. Perhaps strangest of all, but no less welcome, stood the huge form of Russbeorn and the runty figure of Nik the Uruk-hai, while behind them hunched Lugbac and Gubbitch.

Raberlon of Deeping Vale would not pass into the unknown without honour.

Drawing a slow breath, Alfgard spoke these staves in the Common Tongue.

"Great the heart and valiant the spirit

Shouting to the face of the savage foe

He does not fear; bold heart unceasing.

Spears break, shields splinter, heart's blood flows

Upon the broken ground.

Where now, where

Shall we find our brother?

The hall is cold, the fire gone out.

He is gone before, painted shields bear him

Home to the fathers

Who wait at the feast."

After repeating the verse in haunting Rohirric, Alfgard bent and picked up a handful of the newly turned earth and flung it upon the barrow. All the others followed suit, even Nik glancing uncertainly to Russ before emulating his big friend's gesture.

Then Alfgard's sixteen-year-old son urged his horse forward, the other men and boys of his father's employ following in loose order. Around the barrow and gathered witnesses, they slowly rode and began a deep-voiced, solemn song. Almost a chant it seemed, sonorous and strong even in its utter melancholy, the long notes rising in power and the low notes deeply trembling. As the riders circled and sang, their voices rose to fill the chill October sky and perhaps, just perhaps, a kindly wind carried the echoes across hill and field to the far away lands of the Riddermark, whispering that Raberlon, son of Ragathain, of Deeping Vale was gone.

The mourners lingered when the song had done and the slow beat of hooves fell quiet. Those who had known Raberlon mused in the silences of their hearts upon his humble but faithful life. Those who had not simply reflected that the spectre of war was not yet banished, and still haunted the shadowy places of the realm.

Anardil stood close beside Sev but did not interfere with her need to remain strong in the face of grief. Not until she surreptitiously reached for his hand did he speak.

Clasping her fingers warmly, he murmured, "I barely met the man, but I owe him a debt I can never repay. I wish … I wish at least I could mourn him as he deserves."

Sev drew a tight breath before replying evenly, "He died as a warrior. No more would he ask than that."

Looking to the stern Rohirrim faces around him, young and old, and the drifting of grey horses' manes on the breeze, Anardil grudgingly nodded.

"Aye. For him, I hope that was enough."

Then his attention was drawn to a flutter of white, Horus in his garb of Haradrim mourning standing at Darien's side. The older man's blue eyes seemed to look into some far distance, his face stern and still.

Sev followed Anardil's glance and pulled her fingers from his grasp. "If you've something to say to Darien, say it and be done. I've made my peace or at least peace enough for me."

Strange, how a sudden nervousness clutched Anardil's belly as he studied Darien's quiet poise. His gaze took in Horus, always Darien's shadow - or perhaps a brother. What an odd thing that Anardil, a maimed soldier of Middle-earth's great war, could find more fondness for an old enemy than for a comrade of the same battles.

"Horus is a good man," Anardil observed.

Sev looked at him with weary patience. "Yes."

He chewed his lower lip briefly and drew breath to speak, but then let it go. Instead, he reached again for Sev's hand, the touch of his fingers on hers a question. Perhaps she read something of his thoughts in his face, for she accepted his hand and they walked forward together.

Brown eyes and blue looked at the pair as they drew near, Horus lowering his glance and touching his breast.

"Mistress Sev," the Haradrim said in sincere formality, "blessed be your honoured dead, for he has found perfect peace and leaves a mighty memory."

"Thank you, Horus," replied Sev, solemnly.

Which left Darien and Anardil to take each other's measure, two men who knew too much of wars that never quite ended. Anardil thought he saw more grey in Darien's hair than when they first met nearly a year ago. Oddly, it lent an unexpected gentleness to his features, or perhaps it was simply the quiet frankness of his gaze.

Gathering his courage, Anardil said, "If we had met … in other circumstances …"

The thought failed before he could find words. Nonetheless, Darien's mouth quirked wryly.

"Yes. We can add that to a good many ifs."

Somehow that released a bit of the tension and Anardil almost smiled back, glancing at Sev beside him.

Returning his attention to Darien, he said awkwardly, "My lady would not have you and me part with ill feelings between us."

Warmth rose in Darien's eyes. "Mistress Sevilodorf is more generous than I deserve."

"Two days ago I would agree with you." Now a one-sided grin did touch Anardil's lips. "But that was before I saw you risk your life to end Margul's evil." He sobered, studying the Silverbrook lord. "Darien, my people lived in the North for generations without change. We fought, we strove, we hoped … but we seldom imagined that ours would be the generation that witnessed the world altered forever. Now the changes move faster than I can keep up. I have lived to see orcs save human lives and noble lords proven devious as orcs."

Anardil hesitated before adding firmly, "And I have seen fallen nobility restored." The former Ranger held out his hand, meeting Darien's eyes. "I bear you no hostility."

Darien accepted his grasp readily, a rare smile lighting his face and stripping away the lines of care. "Thank you, Anardil Dúnedain. Know that my wish for you will always be peace and safety."

Anardil inclined his head formally, but this new-found accord still did not lend itself to easy conversation. Thus he felt grateful when Darien turned his attention to Sev.

"For you, ma'am," said Darien, "I wish happiness. If ever there is anything you want of me, you know you need only ask."

But Sev frowned and flicked a quick wave of dismissal. "Take care of Evan and Neal as they deserve," she said. "That is all the thanks I need. Go home, Darien. Go home and rebuild, and don't let the past be your master."

With a smile, Darien bowed. "You are wise, Sevilodorf. Perhaps, if it is not asking too much, one day we might claim some good of our meeting."

Sev's gaze shifted pointedly past Darien and he glanced over his shoulder. There Nik stood talking to Alfgard, looking earnestly up at the tall Rohirrim who listened with grave attentiveness. Nearby Alfgard's sixteen-year-old son leant in his saddle to speak with gnarled old Gubbitch, hulking Lugbac standing with hands politely folded alongside.

"We already have, Lord Darien," she said. "We already have."

xxx

Just sitting for hours, her ankle propped on a stool, bored Sira to the bone. Ted worked over at the garrison this morning, and it would be better if Jasimir were working too, because the lad did nothing but torment her. Despite his father telling him off for neglecting his duties, Jasimir would pop into the little parlour where Sira languished to ask stupid questions.

"Not kidnapped by orcs again, then?" seemed to be his favourite, though "Shall I send for Sevilodorf to fix your ankle, or maybe your hair?" came a close second. The latter particularly riled Sira because it reminded her of the time when she and the healer woman were daggers drawn, and Sev extracted revenge by selling her a particularly obnoxious hair dye.

Sira felt ambivalent towards the Rohirrim woman. On several occasions since the horrid events that led to Sira's burnt hands, Sev had shown kindness. Not with the gentleness of a friend, the gods forbid, but rather a cool impartiality which sought no gratitude. The woman had then borne the brunt of the Lord Steward's questioning, allowing Sira to sit in awed silence.

Something else also filled the redhead's mind during the long moments alone - a strange, and not entirely welcome, feeling of comradeship. In the past, Sira and Sev had separately survived the murderous attempts of orcs, and now they shared such an experience. Perhaps all those who escaped life-threatening encounters became somehow connected to their fellow survivors.

Cringing at that thought, Sira wished the minutes would pass more quickly, bringing Ted's evening visit ever nearer. But wish as much as she might, time crept.

Eventually, Jasimir's cheeky face popped round the door again. "You still here?"

"No. I'm not. I'm a figment of your imagination," Sira snapped. "But seeing as you've nothing better to do, you can run an errand for me."

"Who made me your slave?"

"My ankle and your father. Besides, you'll like the errand."

Jasimir's slim form, dressed in his trademark multicoloured clothing, stepped fully into the room. "That must be a figment of _your _imagination. What errand of yours could I possible like?"

"Buying presents for your friends," said Sira, sniffing in her best hauteur.

Jasimir's eyes popped wide open in disbelief. "For _my_ friends? Who?"

It took a moment before Sira could force the names out. "Lugbac and Sevilodorf."

The lad feigned a fall against the doorpost. "Huh!" Straightening, he commented, "I better fetch Master Banazîr to check you've not gotten concussion or a fever."

"Oh, please be serious for once." Sira stamped her good foot on the floor.

Sighing heavily, Jasimir adopted a sober expression. "Thank you presents, are they?"

"Sort of." A nonchalant toss of red curls dismissed it as a minor matter. "I don't want a fuss making. You go and buy the two little gifts I have in mind, bring them back here so I can attach a short note to each, then slip them into Sev's saddlebags or wherever else you can without drawing attention. I don't want them to be found until after they leave the village."

"Maybe he's not as big a fool as I thought," said Jasimir, smiling.

Sira squinted back at him. "Who?"

"Ted, of course. And if you let him go, you're an even bigger fool than I thought he was."

"Let him go? Ted is no fool, and neither am I. And if you want an invite to the wedding you'd better step quickly."

Heaving another sigh, Jasimir grinned. "All right. What do you want me to buy?"

xxx

Leaving behind the barrowing field and its stern grief, the group of mourners journeyed back towards the village. While those of The Burping Troll would stay a final night in Henneth Annûn to celebrate Raberlon's life with a wake, the Silverbrook lord and his friends had their sights set on the road home.

Their possessions already packed and waiting with the other men at The Whistling Dog, Darien took this last chance to thank Alfgard and Linnet for their hospitality during Horus' illness.

"You are welcome to return any time," the stable-master replied. "Though, hopefully, in more pleasant circumstances."

"Maybe on your way to visit our farm." Nik appeared at Darien's side. "You're a farmer too, aren't you?"

A brief smile lit the tall man's face, and he paused to answer the question while Alfgard and the others walked on. "Yes, I am, though often guilty of neglecting my fields and people. And I would dearly like to see your land and exchange farming lore … but that is not possible."

"Why ever not?" asked the uruk in surprise.

Russ' massive form blocked the slanting sun and cast a deep shadow. "Because I barred them - those who kidnapped you, Nik, and caused all the trouble that has since followed."

The white-clad figure of the Haradrim detached from the departing group, and stepped across to hear the debate.

Nik frowned. "But that is over now. Horus and Darien have helped put things right, and so did the others … aside from that Osric fellow."

Beard bristling over a firmly clenched jaw, Russbeorn remained adamant. He shook his head. "A man might glue together the pot he broke, yet he can never make it as sound as it was before." His voice gentled somewhat as he looked down at Nik. "Remember from where we have just come, and tell me again that things have been put right."

"But you can't blame them for what Margul did," Nik protested, while Darien stood in pale-faced silence.

"We have a saying," Horus interjected. "If a man sows bitter seeds, he should be prepared to eat bitter bread."

"Just so." Russ nodded in agreement.

"We have another also." The Haradrim recited it first in his own mellifluous language, and then he translated. "Forgiveness removes the maggot from the fruit though the hole remains."

Nik screwed up his face in an attempt to grasp the meaning. "So, if the maggot is pulled out, most of the fruit is saved."

"Hm," Russ also pondered. "The destruction goes no further, though the memory of it stays."

"Just so," echoed Horus.

The Beorning squinted. "Thus I should remove the maggots from you by forgiving you?"

"No, no." Horus' white _hattah _shook from side-to-side. "We are not the fruit."

"Confound it, then! What is?"

Horus held out his palms and said simply, "Your happiness."

Those two words hung in the air for a moment before Nik exclaimed, "Gosh! That's a very clever saying."

"Indeed, and a very ancient one. Mercy, when it can be granted, cleanses the giver of anger as well as easing the burdens on those to whom it is bestowed. This I know well, for I have received forgiveness many times, and given it wherever I might."

Nik beamed at Horus and Darien. "I forgave you both ages ago, and the others. So I've no angry maggot inside me." His glance then slid up to Russ' face.

Scowling, Russ declared, "I'm NOT angry!" Clearly this could not be true, so he tried again. "If I am angry, it is because I have just cause to be."

The expression on Nik's face remained set as he continued to stare at his mentor, and he folded his arms across his chest to emphasise his disapproval.

Further down the road, Anardil looked back. "Should we do something about them?"

The elf at his side merely smiled. "No. They will make their peace. "

xxx

There came the point in the street for the parting of ways, where Neal and Evan waited on horseback, holding Darien's and Horus' saddled mounts between them.

Erin hailed the young men then glanced over her shoulder. "I'm afraid Darien and Horus are dawdling with Russ and Nik. I cannot imagine what they are discussing in such depth."

"Fruit," confided Celebsul quietly to the hobbit lass. "Starting from how to control grubs, they have now moved onto the subject of grape varieties suitable for the Wetwang climate. Nik and Horus in particular are enthusiastic about exotic wines and wish to acquire certain vines. Oh, and the conversation included a brief exchange between Russ and Darien over recipes for _pyment_."

"_Pyment_?" Erin asked, her brow furrowing at the thought of recipes for something she had never heard of.

"A mead made with honey and grapes. Delicious with dessert, though it can be quite heady."

Grinning widely, the hobbit exclaimed, "Trust you to know of every kind of strong beverage in existence." But her cheerfulness turned to thoughtfulness. "I wish Russ and Darien could be friends."

"Oh, but they are." Celebsul winked. "They just don't know it yet. Russ' ursine, stubborn streak and Darien's stiff correctness cannot hold out forever against the likes of Nik and Horus."

The hobbit patted her chin with her fingers. "Do you really think so?"

"Yes, I do. If I'm any judge of such matters, cuttings and recipes will travel from Silverbrook to Wetwang where the vines will thrive." The elf's expression turned serenely thoughtful. "Alas, for a year or two, they won't produce fruit for harvesting, so I may have to visit Russ with a large sack of grapes to try out the _pyment_. During all this, an exchange of information and advice between the two holdings will inevitably lead to an invitation for Darien and Horus to drop by for a sip of mead if they are ever in the area."

Erin squinted suspiciously at Celebsul. "Hm. I think Nik and Horus might just get some encouragement along the way from a certain silver-haired elf."

The arrival of the four fruit enthusiasts saved Celebsul from having to answer. Horus and Darien took their leave of the others with promises to visit The Burping Troll again come next summer. Sevilodorf told the Haradrim to continue taking his tonic for another week. Then she cautioned Darien about Evan's mischievousness, which manifest even now in the whispers and laughter passing between the lad and his brother.

"Make sure he keeps up his studies." Her words followed the Silverbrook lord into the saddle.

"Oh, I will. Though his craft might never be quite as artful as your own, my lady."

The enigmatic inference was lost on all but Sev, Anardil, Celebsul and, of course, Horus.

Huffing in strangled mirth, Anardil threw his arm around Sev's shoulder and whispered, "Point well scored, and with a 'my lady' thrown in for good measure."

Just as they were about to ride away, Neal called out. "Lug, catch these."

A huge hand reached up and neatly snagged the pouch that the young man threw. Peering inside, Lugbac beamed.

"More horehound drops!" Looking up he added, "I did another good thing?"

"Those are for the two good things you already did," Evan replied, laughing. "You saved Sev _and_ you saved Sira!"

As the thudding of hooves moved the young men away, Lugbac furrowed his brow in concern, for the matter of human names often confused him.

"Who's Sira? When did I save her?"

Gubbitch clouted him gently behind one ear. "Tha daft chuff – it's red-headed lass tha carried down off that there hill."

"Oh, aye." Grinning anew, Lugbac popped a sweet into his mouth and crunched blissfully. A moment later, he mused, "That were ages ago." Small splinters of sugar coating flew from between his teeth. "Fancy, gettin' more treats."

"Aye, fancy." Gubbitch rolled his eyes. "Tha'll be spoilt rotten."

Meanwhile, Horus looked down from his saddle and touched a finger to his forehead. "Expect the cuttings to arrive in January, Master Nik."

"Thanks. I'll get the ground ready. Goodbye for now."

The uruk waved them off, as did all, aside from Russ. Yet he managed a curt nod.

"People," the Beorning muttered. "Far too many people. Time to get home to some peace and quiet. Lots of peace and quiet. Weeks of peace and quiet. I haven't had an uninterrupted pipe in days. Can't sleep for all the nattering going on."

Still grumbling, the giant turned around and set his great legs into a reaching stride in the opposite direction. "No need to dally longer."

When he turned, on his back already hung the pack bearing the few belongings that he and Nik had brought. Nik abruptly realised Russ was leaving and he spun to face the friends he left behind.

"Goodbye, everyone!" the little uruk called merrily. "Goodbye for now!"

He grinned and waved to the chorus of replies, then wheeled about to catch up with Russ. It took three of his strides to match one of Russ', but he settled into his pace as easily as a hound.

"Say, Teach," he said, "When we get home, can I go fishing?"

"You can do anything you like."

"Great! I'm going fishing, then. Although I still need to fix the roof over the grain room. Plus we must plan the perfect place for the grapes, and then …"

Enormous bear-man and wiry, undersized uruk-hai, the unlikely pair receded up the village street towards the road north. Behind them, Erin twisted this way and that as she fretfully watched both sets of friends depart.

"Goodbye!" the hobbit lass cried. "Goodbye! You all must promise to write at Yuletide!"

Then she turned and the much-reduced group resumed walking together.

"You know," she said, "this might turn out to be a good day after all."

xxx

TBC …


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-three**

_The Inn of the Burping Troll_

_November 1st_

The bittersweet wake for Raberlon, and the following morning's journey home, were at last over. Sevilodorf and Anardil settled gratefully into their cosy room behind the workshop at The Burping Troll. The young, black-and-white cat, Tac, plagued them both, insistent they make up in full for their desertion.

At last, Tac curled up on the hearth atop the spoils of battle – a pair of socks – while Anardil walked to the inn for some mint for tea. The season had begun to take a chilly turn of late, and for now the former Ranger enjoyed the little comforts of home. In his absence, his lady sat pondering the events of recent weeks.

Lifting her chin, Sev frowned at the image reflected in the mirror before her. The bruising upon her cheek had reached its most unattractive stage and did little to enhance her appearance. Considering the outcome of her abduction by Margul might have been far worse, she judged her soreness and mottled countenance a small price. However, Anardil's eyes tightened every time he looked upon her face; and Sev knew the sooner the bruising faded, the greater her chance of avoiding further limitations upon her freedom.

Accepting there was no escape, Sev stoically agreed to Anardil's request that she refrain from leaving the grounds of The Burping Troll for an entire seven days. In truth, the prospect of a week of doing nothing more strenuous than concocting a winter tonic, cleaning out the cellar, or finally restitching the hem of her green skirt seemed rather appealing. Whether that appeal would withstand the test of time, she doubted she would be forced to discover. Within three days, Anardil would be pacing the floor, waiting anxiously for the arrival of the next messenger, poring over Hal's reports and suspiciously studying the merchants enjoying their hobbit-sized dinners.

Dipping a handkerchief in tincture of arnica, Sev murmured, "Three days. If that long."

The splatter of rain upon the window drew her gaze as she applied the cloth to her cheek. Watching the drops run down the pane, Sev wondered if she might convince one of the elves to carry an arnica-based liniment to Henneth Annûn. The lavender-like scent of the herb would appeal to Sira, and the remedial properties of the arnica and comfrey would promote further healing of the girl's scarred hands. Thankfully, Alfgard had found another pair of gloves without having to send to Minas Tirith.

The thought of the Stone City sent a shiver down Sev's spine. If there were one place to be avoided, the White City was the place. Anardil, she suspected, would have preferred to go and sit in the Council Chambers. Denied the pleasure of seeing to Margul's end, he had quietly requested that Faramir allow him to present a personal grievance against Lord Valthaur. Though the Lord Steward's refusal set Anardil to muttering dire imprecations against protocol, Sev had been silently overjoyed. It was never wise to give an oliphaunt a second chance to step on you. The farther she and those she loved were from Minas Tirith, the better.

"Maybe a trip to the Borderlands?" she mused aloud, dousing the cloth again.

The faint rumble of thunder caused Tac to open one eye sleepily; but when no more followed, he resumed his slumber. Sev nodded then reapplied the handkerchief to her face. It would be best to go now, before the real storms of the season began. The weather-wise hobbits had assured one and all that this evening's rain would hurry past; leaving clear skies for several days to follow.

The rattle of the door latch interrupted her musing and in came Anardil bearing two parcels, one small and one medium-sized, clamped awkwardly under his arm. A chilly gust of rain-scented wind came with him.

"Loof!" she exclaimed, and she sprang to her feet. "I would have gotten the door."

"I know." Anardil's wry grin conceded acknowledgment of his own stubbornness when it came to his physical limitations. "Perhaps you would instead rescue these before I drop them?"

With an exasperated sigh, Sev caught the packages as they slipped from his one-armed grasp, whereupon Anardil closed the door. Tac raised his head to cast both humans a slit-eyed glare when the cold draft wafted past him, but neither paid heed.

"What are these?" Sev asked, taking one in each hand. Both items were wrapped in paper and string, but only the larger one possessed any weight.

"I've no idea," Anardil replied, as he shrugged out of his damp cloak. "Erin found them in the bottom of her pack."

Sev snorted. "Erin's pack has a bottom?"

Both chuckled, recalling the hobbit's extravagant notions of travel, complete with every memento and convenience of home. Anardil then fished in his pocket and pulled out a small envelope.

"There is a note that goes with it," he said. "Addressed to you."

"Really?" Sev set the packages on the table and took the letter. "Hm, handwriting doesn't look familiar. Maybe Linnet or Nora slipped us something, do you suppose?"

Opening the envelope, she scanned the page within. Her eyes widened when she read the signature. "Oh my. These are from Sira, of all people." Squinting suspiciously at him, she added, "Did you know anything about this?"

"Not a thing, dear lady. This once, I promise I am completely innocent."

Anardil smiled as he sat down to watch Sev open the mysterious gifts. The paper removed from the first, it became visible as a plump sack containing an abundant supply of horehound drops. Sev laughed suddenly, realising for whom these were intended.

"Lugbac?" asked Anardil with a grin.

"Yes," Sev replied with a rueful shake of her head. "Which I will hold and dispense over time. One episode of the purgative effects of a large quantity of horehound upon the intestinal capabilities of an enormous orc is more than enough."

The second, smaller parcel proved to be a soft leather coin purse. Adorning it was the cleverly embroidered rendering of three green leaves and a purple thistle blossom.

Seeing this, Anardil winked and asked, "Do you suppose she's trying to say something?"

Sev looked at him and picked up the note to read aloud. "Sev: I noticed the disreputable state of your purse several days ago. May this serve you well. The embroidery is done by the local woman who sews my shifts. Sira."

She paused to study the needlework, which really was quite fine and artfully executed.

"Well, well," chuckled Anardil. "Sira is almost being polite. Will wonders never cease?"

"Doubtful," Sev replied dryly, "in a place inhabited by orcs and hobbits, balrogs and elves, Beornings and the most outlandish beings of all… rascally Rangers."

Anardil's smile widened as he reached for her hand. "You do meet the most interesting people in the rain."

She let him pull her to his side, where he wrapped his arm around her waist and she stroked his dark hair with one hand. "Though your life would be much simpler and more peaceful if you had never gone into that alley in Pelargir."

"Peaceful?" he asked, looking up at her with gentle eyes. "Or simply empty? No, Sevi. You are my guide in a changing world, and with you, I can face the changes."

"Loof," she said, but softly. "I think you have that backwards."

"No." Her hand fell to his shoulder as he solemnly shook his head. "The world is changed, Sevi. You and I will live to see many more changes; I feel the shape of things moving even beyond what our lives will know. Though I wonder what will come of all our dealings with laws and judgements and such."

"It's hard to say," Sev mused.

"Aye. I think, in the end, we won't have made that great a mark. Most orcs would curse our rulings for peace, if they knew of them at all, and when the last orc dies, the world will not mourn his passing."

Frowning, Sev tapped him atop the head as if to dislodge such maudlin thinking. "Perhaps. But at least we bought Gubbitch and Nik and their friends the freedom from strife they wish for. That alone was worth the trouble, I think."

"Yes." A small, thoughtful smile touched his lips. "It was. There is one other thing, and I hope you'll remind me, should I lose sight of it."

He looked up at her, and she waited for him to continue.

"The truth endures," he said. "And past weeks have reminded me that truth should be the star we steer by, if we're to meet our future with open eyes."

Sev brushed her fingers over his brow, then lightly under his jaw. "Yes. Though I have learnt that it is sometimes necessary to conceal the truth from others, we must never hide it from ourselves. A wise man once said, 'Truth is a point, the subtlest and finest; harder than adamant; never to be broken, worn away or blunted.'"

Anardil cocked an eyebrow. "Would that be a Celebsul-ism?"

"Actually, that's a Horus-ism."

"Of course. If not an elf, then it must be a Haradrim."

They laughed softly together and Sev's fingers brushed his hair again. Their smiles softened, deepened to something else and she leaned to brush her lips on his. He slid his hand beneath her long braid, finding the warm skin of her neck – then both of them jerked upright at a sudden rapping at the door.

Exchanging rueful smiles, Sev stepped to the door, and opened it to yet another gust of damp wind and two hooded hobbit lasses who beamed wide smiles.

"We saw Anardil fetching the tea," said Meri.

"And we thought you'd need something to go with it," said Erin.

"So we fixed you a little basket to tide you until supper." Meri smilingly held up the proof of their endeavours.

"Just some nibblings," Erin added.

Meri nodded emphatically. "Since you Big Folk never eat enough, anyhow."

Sev took the basket and glanced over her shoulder at Anardil grinning and shaking his head. "Thank you," she said, and paused to mull a sudden thought.

Abruptly she stepped back from the door and gestured inside. "Would you like to come in and join us? The kettle isn't hot yet, but it won't take long."

An instant babble of replies echoed.

"Oh, we wouldn't want to keep you."

"We shouldn't be an intrusion."

"We have to start supper soon."

"We can't stay but a minute."

"But if it's no bother -."

When the door closed, it left the cold and bluster of October's end outside. Inside, there was only the comfort of a cosy hearth, the warmth of friendship, and plump, steaming honey-currant buns fresh from the oven.

xxx

_Minas Tirith_

_5th Circle_

_November 6th_

"Do you know the greatest kind of fool, Claremon?" asked Lord Valthaur.

The grey-haired servant glanced up from pouring his master's wine. However, he knew better than to answer what was, after all, a rhetorical question, and simply tipped the bottle upright without speaking.

"The greatest fool," said Valthaur, picking up his cup to swirl the crimson liquid within, "is he who seeks to topple better men." The rasp of his breathing was the only indication of the corpulent law lord's ire. "There are those who would see me fall, Claremon. There are those who delight in crowing over the bones of giants and hurling stones from the safety of the crowd."

Valthaur's eyes glittered coldly in afternoon light that slanted through the open doors of his terrace. His gaze fixed on some point out there as he lifted the cup for a judicious sip. Claremon watched and recognised approval from the absence of censure. With a silent bow, he left the bottle on the polished table in front of his master and backed away.

"But they will not have me," murmured Valthaur, and sipped his wine again.

Claremon disappeared behind a discreetly closed door, but not so far that he could not answer the summons of the bell pull. For a time Valthaur sat thus, unmoving and unblinking. The lengthening rays of autumn, nearly winter, poured in pale silence through the open doors and upon the white pavestone floor. Behind his chair stood nooks graced with statuary and shelves of books, the library of a lifetime's collection. Through the doorway, Valthaur could see his small, walled garden and even without rising, he knew the view beyond. There below his garden wall, the lower levels of the White City lay exposed to his scrutiny from garret to post, each bending lane and narrow way.

"Forty years," he said, his fleshy jowls tightening as he sucked a sharp breath, "and _this_ is how they thank me!"

His hand smote with ringing force upon the documents at his elbow: heavy, elegant papers adorned with ribbon and an equally heavy seal. Upon the broken seal's face could still be seen the imprint of a tree and seven stars.

"How _dare_ they summon _me_ for their contemptible investigation?" Valthaur rasped, spots of colour mottling his cheeks. His fingers tightened about his cup, knuckles whitening below the hard glint of the adamant stone of his ring. "Thankless, clodpated, imbecilic, cretinous, idiotic _fools!_ For forty years, I labour to hold back chaos, and now they would undo it all. And for what?"

His lungs wheezed harshly, he clenched his jaw, and a sudden sweep of his hand dashed the summons upon the floor.

"Heaven help me, that I ever lived to see such days!"

In a second swift gesture, he tossed the rest of his wine down his throat – and an explosion of coughing bent him double. He hacked, wheezed and gasped with rib-cracking force ere he pushed himself upright in his chair once more. When he looked up with watery eyes, Claremon stood gravely beside him.

"What may I bring you, lord?" the servant asked.

"My cough remedy," choked Valthaur, podgy fingers pressed to his chest. "And pour me more wine."

"At once, lord."

Claremon bowed and deftly refilled the cup. Then on silent feet, he swept from the room, to return a moment later with a small packet in hand. The glass of wine stood untouched at Valthaur's right hand.

"Leave it," said Valthaur, flicking his fingers in dismissal.

With a second prim bow, Claremon set down the packet and left the room. For a long moment Valthaur simply sat, waiting for his breathing to steady. Then he absently opened the packet and shook a practiced dose into his cup. A fine powder sifted to speckle the surface of the wine.

"Hollyhock extract. My beloved plants at least have never failed me."

He paused, staring into the cup as if seeing it for the first time. The powder drifted in tiny motes, among which his face lay reflected in the little pool of crimson fluid - distorted, malformed, a caricature of his true features.

"Who is the monster?" Valthaur whispered. "The monster himself, or he who elevates the monster to the proper place of men?"

Abruptly he pursed his mouth and swirled the wine about to dissolve the powder. That done, he lifted the cup – and hesitated one last time. But only for a moment, before he upended the little packet to dump its entire contents into the liquid. A smooth motion dissolved the powder completely, whereupon he downed the wine in one steady draught.

Carefully he dabbed at his lips, set the cup aside, and composed himself in his chair facing the open terrace door. Out in the last sunlight, the tall stems of hollyhocks nodded in the late afternoon breeze, some still bearing the last tattered blooms of summer in hues of crimson to near black.

"No," said Valthaur quietly. "You shall not have me."

Some while later, Claremon entered on slipper-shod feet. A chill breeze whispered through the open doors and fluttered the papers scattered on the floor. Claremon bent to pick them up, barely looking at his master's sleeping form. The servant set the papers neatly on the table, took the empty wine cup and made a step towards the doors.

Then he paused, his bland gaze lifting to Valthaur's motionless, expressionless face. No sound did Lord Valthaur make. No sound at all.

The cup hit the floor in clangour of pewter on stone and Claremon's eyes popped open wide.

"Oh, mercy!" he breathed. Then he flew to the door at a dead run, wrenched it open and fled down the hall at full speed.

"Help us!" his frantic cry rang in the corridor. "Oh, come quick, Lord Valthaur is dead!"

xxx

November 19th

Far out upon the broad expanses of the Wetwang, pools of water mirrored the fiery hues of a November evening sky, while chill breezes whispered through the rushes. Beneath ribbons of purple cloud and crimson sunset, a solitary hawk tilted a wing and slid downward on currents of air. As he soared, the land subtly rose until the plain bristled with grass and shrubs, and twilight rather than water filled the dells. Further yet he roamed, until several shadowy buildings came into view, alone and serene amidst the broad expanse of wilderness.

There two dogs stood with their noses to the door of the sturdy house, tails wagging hopefully. Suddenly it opened to let them in and let Nik, the little Uruk-hai, out. Glancing up at the fading glory of sunset, he made his way across the yard to the barn, where the animals stood dozing contentedly in their stalls over the remains of their supper. Nik smiled and went back outside.

At the stone granary he paused to study the roof, where the thatching lay firm and even, ready for the rains of winter. Then he walked towards the root cellar and jiggled its sloping door to make sure it was firmly sealed. Finally he went to the henhouse, stepping quietly amongst their warm scent and drowsy clucking where he counted heads to make sure all the chickens were in for the night.

As he turned to come out, a sudden voice spoke.

"Can I have one?

Nik looked up with a grin already on his face and saw the massive dark grey bulk of a warg. The great creature offered a toothy grin in return, her eyes glinting in the gathering twilight.

"Why, hello, Warg," he said. "How are you? And can you have one what?"

"A chicken."

"Of course you can't!" He shut the henhouse door firmly behind him. "They are for eggs, not eating."

"Aw, c'mon," she wheedled. "Can't I have just one?"

"No, Warg."

"Just a little one?"

"Warg, no!"

"Pretty please?"

With a sigh, Nik reached into his pocket and pulled out a solitary egg. "Here, catch."

The egg vanished in a crunching, slurping gulp. Warg belched before speaking again.

"So what are you doing?"

"Oh, just checking everything. Teach is in taking a nap."

"How long this time?"

"Two days."

"Ah. So what do you do when you're done checking?"

"I don't know. It's almost dark, so I'll go to bed soon, I guess."

"Bed? You'll be wasting the best part of the day."

Nik looked up again, where the colours of sundown quickly burned away to purple ash, leaving a sky deepening to cobalt and flecked with the first stars. He breathed in and smelled damp earth, deep roots, and the sleeping places of buried stones.

"Maybe I'll just sit out here for a while," he said. "Until I feel sleepy."

"You work too much," Warg observed. "Since you came back from that thing in Henneth Annûn, what have you done that's fun?"

He looked at her, seeming to loom greater now as twilight thickened upon the land. "Oh, I don't know, Teach and I have been busy. When we got back from Henneth Annûn, we still had lots to do to get ready for winter."

"Hmph."

Warg sat down and scratched behind one ear – a scratch so good that it quite occupied her attention for several seconds. Then she stood and shook her heavy coat back into place.

"So what did you get in Henneth Annûn?"

"I didn't go there to get a thing, Warg. I went there so people would know I kept my word to tell the truth. And now Teach doesn't have to worry about me any more."

Warg lifted her long muzzle to delicately taste some passing scent on the breeze.

"You walk between worlds, Nik, half here and half there. I don't think I could do that." Then she looked at him, eyes agleam with the last flame of sunset. "Let's just be here, tonight. Look, the Moon is coming up."

The little uruk turned and saw it was so. The huge pale disk of the Moon loomed behind the distant spine of the eastern horizon, where its emerging glow dimmed the first stars. Even while he watched, the Moon's face swelled where it clung to the skyline, its silvery light spilling into the deep blue of dusk left by its retreating sister, the Sun.

Behind him, Warg said, "Where shall we go tonight, Nik? Where should we run?"

And it dawned on him that, finally, he was truly free to run. Lies and hatred no longer bound him to the borders of Russ' land. Truth had thrown back many boundaries, and suddenly he wanted to see what lay beyond.

"That way," said Nik, and pointed at random. "That way until we get bored and want to go somewhere else."

Warg chuffed with approving laughter and stood while he lightly swung astride. Then Nik, a runty Uruk-hai formerly of Isengard and once deemed too small to be a warg rider, clung to his warg-friend's back and flew.

Away they sprang into the silver-blues of twilight and across the grassy marshes. Away they fled before the broad silver face of the fat and rising Moon, away and away, faster and faster, until the great warg's muscles bunched and stretched at a mighty, tear-inducing pace. Amidst moonlight and twilight, the waning day and rising night, they passed as shadows on the grass.

Then down the wind, far, far away where chimneys sleepily smoked and the last lamps went out in the cosy houses of Men, perhaps a keen ear might have heard. To the ageless night and timeless earth, Warg sang nature's oldest song.

"AWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOO," she called, "AWWOOOOOOOOOOOOO," until the echoes of perfect freedom sang back.

xxx

TBC …


	25. Chapter 25

**EPILOGUE**

_Minas Tirith_

_November 20th_

A faint frown marred Kerwin's otherwise pleasant countenance, while he aligned the thick file with the edge of the well-polished oak table. After nearly two weeks of perusing Lord Valthaur's extensive library, hope faded of establishing a direct connection between the deceased judge and any of the disturbing occurrences which had raised the Lord Steward's suspicions. If cataloguing the misfortunes of those who had somehow run afoul of Valthaur had not left him with the unpleasant sensation of walking through a stagnant pond, Kerwin might have been impressed with the man's ability to manipulate both the law and its officers. Many of whom continued to refuse even the thought of such a distinguished lord being guilty of malfeasance.

Kerwin sighed. "If only we could find more proof," he murmured, and let the edge of the file drop with a leathery slap.

As yet, the only truly damning evidence that existed was the note discovered in Margul's camp. To any man of sense, such a missive proclaimed Lord Valthaur's guilt in the solicitation of murder and kidnapping. However, sense appeared in short supply when it came to the High Lords of Gondor facing the possible guilt of one of their own. It was truly fortunate that the residents of The Burping Troll had chosen not to present the evidence to the High Council themselves. Kerwin shuddered to think how Anardil or Captain Halbarad would have responded to the Council's suggestion that emotional ties might have led to the manufacture of such a note. Witnessing the icy anger of both the Lord Steward and the King at the intimation had been frightening enough.

Running a hand over the smooth black leather of the portfolio, the young clerk reflected upon the range of misconduct represented here. Foremost was poor Lord Meneltir, who would never fully recover from the illness which allowed Valthaur to assume the duty of hearing the trial of Nik the Uruk-hai - an illness which, in hindsight, appeared more than happenstance. Sudden ailments and misfortunes had benefited several of the law lord's prosecutions, according to the records. No one had been too high or too low to escape Valthaur's attentions.

Taken individually, it might be possible to credit any single episode to misplaced trust in an underling, as with Khint's suborning of the witnesses in the recent case in Henneth Annûn, or to simple bad luck, as with the tragic riding accident of the primary witness in a case of Grimbold versus Sweetwater. At some point, however, it was necessary to ask how often such instances could cause a complaint to be dropped, or a case to be decided in Valthaur's favour, before it became obvious it was not coincidence, but the subtle mechanisations of one man.

Unfortunately, even though Kerwin, Lord Goldur and others of even greater rank were convinced that responsibility for Meneltir's condition, and other even more tragic circumstances, should be borne by Valthaur, the cunning lord had ever managed to remain one step removed from the execution of his retribution. With his death, hope of discovering the truth withered. As yet, no one with more than supposition had been willing to speak out, and no physical evidence had been unearthed.

With a frown at the ornate chair drawn precisely to the centre of the gleaming table, Kerwin straightened his thin shoulders and turned back to the wide shelves housing the late Lord Valthaur's personal library. Pulling down a slim cloth-bound volume, Kerwin settled onto the cushioned bench he had requested be brought in for his use. Somehow he found it impossible to sit in the same chair Lord Valthaur had used.

An hour passed with little to show for his efforts, save the elimination of another set of tomes as possible caches of information. Pausing in his search to light the lamps - for evening descended beyond the terrace doors - Kerwin glanced once more at the elegant chair. At times, the seat seemed filled with the pale shadow of an immense figure. Fingers steepled in thought, the phantom watched his quest with a haughty confidence. Irritated at his flight of fancy, Kerwin flinched back to reality, his arm flying outward of its own volition to brush against a stack of papers and send them fluttering to the floor.

With a self-castigating mutter, he dropped to his knees to collect the pages. Stretching beneath the table to retrieve the final few, he heard the chamber's door open and the deep timbre of his master's voice.

"Kerwin?"

"Here, sir." Kerwin crawled from beneath the table and stood with the disarranged file clasped in his hands.

"There you are, my boy." Goldur gave a weary smile and turned to the dour, greying servant hovering just inside the door. "Tea for two, if you would, Claremon."

"Right away, sir," replied the stiff-backed man. He granted Kerwin a disapproving sniff before bowing low and pulling the door shut behind him.

As embarrassment stained Kerwin's pale cheeks, Goldur settled onto the cushioned bench and said, "Don't let Claremon distress you."

"I'll try, sir," Kerwin replied and shuffled the pages he held into a semblance of order. "It must be – must be difficult for a servant of s-so many years to regard o-objectively someone trying to – to sully the reputation of an esteemed master."

Goldur frowned thoughtfully. "You are seeking confirmation of the man's true character, not attempting to vilify Valthaur."

"Still, it must be as – as difficult for his loyal servants to – to admit Lord Valthaur's faults as it is for th-the Council of Lords."

As ever, Goldur overlooked his scribe's ungainly stammer to reply with gentle calm. "You think then that Claremon and the others feel loyalty to their late master? I wonder. 'Tis certain that Valthaur did not harbour similar feelings for his hirelings."

"Sir?"

"The terms of his affairs are not yet finalised, but only the most meagre of pensions has been granted even the most long-standing of his employees. It is my understanding they remain in service to Valthaur's estate only until such time as his heir assumes possession of the household."

"But th-that's disgraceful," exclaimed Kerwin. "Gondorian standards – the very standards of the realm – re-require rewarding loyal s-service. Esp-especially old family retainers."

Goldur nodded toward the thick leather portfolio upon the table. "After all we have discovered, are you truly shocked?"

"I suppose not." Kerwin sagged as his indignation fluttered out. "But still it's re-reprehensible. Will not Valthaur's nephew continue their employment?"

"The new Lord, Harding, has made plain that he will install his own people at the earliest opportunity and that those whom his uncle pensioned off can expect no more from him." Goldur ruefully shook his head. "As for those without pensions, they have already begun to seek positions elsewhere. Claremon did a creditable job of negotiating relatively substantial wages for all of the staff during the interim. None of them will go away as empty handed as Valthaur intended."

Kerwin's large brown eyes widened. "B-but why would he treat them this way?"

"Why?" Goldur favoured his clerk with a sad smile. "My dear boy, I fear I am totally incapable of fathoming Valthaur's motivations. I have been as blind as anyone to the reality of his character. While I always considered him a mighty adversary, it was my belief that he treasured the ideal of truth above all else. Now I see that only winning mattered - for that earnt him high reputation with all its trappings."

Pushing himself heavily to his feet, Goldur wandered over to the sideboard and examined a diamond-encrusted goblet. "What I thought to be the steel of courage is now revealed as the hard-heartedness of a glutton. And in this, I don't refer to gastronomy." Pausing to pat his own rounded belly, the law lord continued, "But rather, greed for power. The one thing that remains of Valthaur's precious reputation, to my mind, is the fact that he was an extremely clever man. Rapacity combined with genius is a blend that has blighted Middle-earth since the beginning."

A tap on the door and the return of Claremon bearing a tray brought an end to Goldur's reflections.

"Shall I pour, sir?" Claremon asked. He placed the silver tea setting, fine porcelain and small covered plates at the end of the table before adjusting the chairs.

"I believe we can manage," Goldur replied, lifting a cover to reveal a mound of neatly trimmed and quartered cucumber sandwiches. Suppressing his curiosity at this out-of-season delicacy, he asked, "How go the renovations in the arboretum?"

Kerwin noted the momentary tightening of the man's hands and considered anew Goldur's speculations concerning the feelings of the servants toward the late Lord Valthaur.

"Lord Harding's instructions have been very specific and work proceeds apace." When Goldur nodded encouragingly, Claremon added. "The changes he requests are quite extensive and will require several weeks to accomplish properly."

"Thus delaying the nephew's occupation," the law lord remarked blandly.

"Regretfully, sir." Claremon's expression remained that of perfect virtue. "But he did make it plain that he preferred all the work to be complete before he took up residency. His lady is said to be most partial to roses, and he wishes the more 'mundane' aspects of the arboretum removed forthwith."

"Ah yes, the hollyhocks." Goldur glanced towards the double doors leading out to the terrace. "A shame to destroy the plants which your master devoted so much time to developing."

"All of his lordship's records have been carefully collected and turned over to the Master Herbalist of the Houses of Healing. The final harvest of seeds, as well. 'Tis one reason the task has proceeded so slowly. I assure you the gardening staff have continued to follow the protocols established by Lord Valthaur himself."

"I'm certain your staff does all that is proper. Thank you, Claremon."

Bowing low, the man made a soundless exit. As he did, Kerwin solicitously made sure Goldur's chair was placed just so and pushed the plate of dainties within easy reach before taking his own seat.

When the two settled in for their repast, Kerwin asked, "Your interviews – did they fare well?"

Goldur sighed, contemplating a wedge of bread and cucumber. "Khint remains steadfast in his insistence that he had no idea Osric and the others were Lord Darien's men and that he cut all contact with them as soon as he realised. Regarding the topic of his conversation with the men and the voicing of his opinions, he declares them to be only those of any right minded citizen. He is not likely to change that story before his own trial."

The law lord waved the bit of sandwich then popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. "As for Valthaur's other clerks, none will speak harshly of their employer. If I were not already convinced of the man's guilt, that alone would raise my suspicions. For not a single one of a man's employees to complain about him is beyond belief."

Kerwin's fine features distorted themselves into an expression of disapproval. "And the orc? Has his condition changed?"

"Unable to bear the confinement of the cell, the creature sinks deeper into insanity by the hour, but he remains feral and murderous. Lord Faramir has set the first day of the coming month for his execution." Goldur frowned thoughtfully. "There was one strangely lucid moment. The head jailer has a large cat to keep the rodent population in check. It followed us to the orc's cell. Immediately upon sight of the cat, Odbut went still - moving nothing except to blink slowly. "

The law lord hunched in his seat, his podgy face arranged briefly in a reptilian stare. "No word that I or the guards spoke caused a response. His attention was fixated upon the animal. When the cat began to saunter away, the orc began to chant, 'Here puss. Here puss-puss. Come to Odbut, Tibbles.' Without a look the cat disappeared down the hallway and the orc began to cackle." A waving slice of cucumber abruptly dismissed the memory. "'Twas most disquieting."

Kerwin grimaced. "It is to be hoped that Tibbles keeps his distance. I would hate to see it suffer at the hands of an insane orc."

Goldur cast him a speculative look. "Ah, but the animal's name is Stripes."

"Where ever did the orc get the name 'Tibbles'?" Kerwin said stirring his tea carefully. "I mean it's s-scarcely the – the name you would expect an orc to call a cat."

"No, it isn't." The law lord frowned at his next bite of sandwich. "But remember that this Odbut had been travelling with Margul for several months. Perhaps it is something he heard that appealed to him."

"That must be…." Kerwin stopped. With total disregard for the cucumber slices suddenly spilling across his plate, he whirled about and began ransacking the painstakingly organised papers. "Tibbles… Tibbles… who in their right mind would …"

With a triumphant "AHA" he held up a heavily creased page and presented it Goldur. In his excitement, his stammer nearly disappeared.

"Tibbles, my lord, is mentioned in one of the cases – one of Valthaur's cases - which was dismissed due to – to the disappearance of a key witness. One Bill Brushybottom, formerly of Bree, went missing from his home a week before his testimony was to be called upon. Foul play was suspected, but never – never actually proven."

Goldur accepted the page and said, "Why is that?"

"The investigators never f-found the body, my lord, though the man's home was awash in blood." Kerwin leaned forward to point at the final paragraph of the report. "All they found was the – was the carefully arranged corpse of the – of the man's cat. Tibbles."

The rotund lord nodded and perused the report. "A thin link, but something to give us hope there might be others. Well done, Kerwin."

Blushing fiercely, the young man replied, "'Tis only my – my job. Perhaps a trip to see Master Brushybottom's neighbours? As Lord Faramir often remarks, it is best to – to hear the tale from those who – who lived it."

"What? Are you so tired of his lordship's library that you will undertake a ride out into the cold and damp?"

Before Kerwin could admit to the unease he experienced whenever alone in the room, running footsteps sounded in the hallway. As he and Goldur eyed the closed door, they heard strident whispers from the corridor. Finally there came a sharp tap at the door and Claremon entered.

"Begging your pardon, my lord, but a situation has arisen in the arboretum that requires attention. Would you come?"

The greying servant's veneer of dignity seemed near to cracking, if the trembling in his clasped hands were any indication. Goldur levered himself from the chair, Kerwin scrambling to assist him, and they followed Claremon out. In the hallway, one of the older gardeners stood looking pale, even fearful, his hat in hand while he bobbed nervously to Goldur.

"Please – please come, yer lordship," the old man stammered. "Please come."

Without waiting for a reply, he hastened back the way he had come, heedless of the muddy footprints he left on the polished floor. Goldur and Kerwin followed more slowly, until they came to the arboretum, awash in warm lamplight and the lavender shadows of an autumn evening. Here, sheltered from capricious winds and prying eyes by stone walls and many high windows, the very finest of Lord Valthaur's botanical endeavours were kept under close care. Earlier in the season it would have been vibrant with green foliage and towers of richly coloured blooms, but now Valthaur's private garden lay in shambles.

Wheelbarrows, trowels and shovels lay about between mounds of rich earth, heaps of brittle brown stalks and large, crumpled leaves. The long, whitish roots lay barren as bones, dribbling crumbs of soil on the flagstones. Soon Valthaur's beloved hollyhocks would be no more than a memory, as the nephew's roses took their place.

However, such musing came to an abrupt halt when Goldur noticed two apprentice gardeners huddled in the doorway, their faces pale as whey. The older gardener shuffled forward and stopped midway, pointing an unsteady finger.

"We found that, yer lordship. Lor' knows what it means, it just come up in young Bren's shovel, there."

A second glance revealed Bren as a sallow youth who looked very much on the verge of becoming ill. "Very well," said Goldur with a fatherly smile. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

'We' turned out to be a relative term, as only Goldur and Kerwin went forward. The reason became immediately clear. What first appeared as some odd, leprous melon half-buried in the dirt suddenly revealed teeth and sunken eye sockets.

"Oh!" squeaked Kerwin, and clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Bless me …" breathed Goldur, and sank heavily to one knee. Kerwin tottered unsteadily behind him but held his place.

Frowning, the law lord picked up an abandoned trowel and gently, cautiously moved aside more of the loose soil. Mingled with the rich, damp odours of fertile earth wafted a heavier, ranker smell of death. The skull was not completely bone, but rather still bore a thin shock of reddish hair and leathery remnants of skin. The teeth appeared clean and white, marred only by the absence of the two upper front incisors.

"Hm," said Goldur thoughtfully. "I should say this gentleman has been missing those teeth a good while. There is no other sign of violence to the mouth. Perhaps that will count as a means to identify the poor soul."

Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, "Did you find any other bones?"

The old gardener twisted his cap in his hands. "Just the head, yer lordship. No tellin' where the rest of him be."

The other lad by the door, not Bren, swallowed and added, "We found some other things, though. We thought it was all just old rubbish nobody would want."

"Probably you are right – oh, do help me up, Kerwin, there's my lad."

A good deal of heaving and grunting put Goldur firmly on his feet, where Kerwin unnecessarily brushed off his master's back and shoulders.

"Well, then," said Goldur. "Let's have a look." He laid a finger alongside his nose and winked. "Rubbish, I'm sure, but indulge an old man's curiosity, eh?"

The apprentices fished in their pockets, as did the old gardener, and a curious assortment of items appeared in their grubby palms. A silver button embossed with a floral design, two small gold or brass buttons, a silver ring, a large, curiously ornate key, a silver buckle set with a cabochon, and a brass seal such as one would close a letter with, this embossed with a stylised letter D.

"Come on, Bren, show yours," said the second youth, elbowing his companion.

Reluctantly Bren stuck his hand in his pocket once more, and withdrew a heavy man's signet ring, scribed with tiny runes and set with a ruby stone. Goldur looked at that and sighed.

Kerwin swallowed, his Adam's apple leaping spasmodically in his throat. "What does – what does it mean, sir?"

"Villainy, I am afraid," Goldur replied. He plucked the seal from the second boy's dirty hand and turned it for study. "D would undoubtedly be for -."

"Denhir," Kerwin finished for him. "The witness in that inheritance dispute who vanished four years ago."

Goldur eyed his young protégé in approval. "You have a good memory, lad, and a clever mind for deduction. Now, as for you fellows …" He peered from under his brows at the young gardeners and their aging supervisor. "I know it would be no use to ask you to remain silent. Therefore I will only say that what you have found, you may keep, saving only this seal and the signet ring."

"But -." Bren blurted then shrank from the old gardener's glare and the judge's disapproving headshake.

"Tut, lad, these belong to others who will be glad to have them. I will, however, compensate you for your trouble." Goldur held out the seal and signet ring for Kerwin's keeping and fished in his own pocket. From it he withdrew several silver pennies, which he dropped into the gardeners' hands. "There. That should be about what you would have got for those items, down among the shops."

"But we –."

"Would have haggled to get more, and ended up with much less." Goldur winked. "Now, someone fetch me a box or some such, and one of you lads, Bren, there, do run a note to the City Guard as soon as I scratch it out. Come along, now."

Despite his easy demeanour with the shaken gardeners, however, Kerwin saw Goldur's round face return to sombreness soon after. When Bren had run for the guard and Claremon took the other two gardeners to the kitchen for a fortifying cup of ale, the law lord and his clerk again sat at Valthaur's table.

For a long moment they were silent, Goldur lost in thought and Kerwin plucking at the stack of gathered files. Finally he looked up, his dark eyes mournful.

"Why did he do it, sir?"

Blinking back from his reverie, Goldur favoured the young man with a sad smile. "We may never know, my boy."

"Do you think … do you think he had any – any idea what he did was wrong?"

Goldur's gaze sharpened. "No. I do not. Some men, lad, and mind you learn this well, believe power gives them rights above ordinary people. They believe the common rules apply only to those lesser than they, and that they circle above on some higher, wiser plane from which only they can see the true shape of things. Such was Valthaur, alas. Though perhaps he strove ever for what he believed was the good of the realm, he forgot one simple thing."

The law lord held up a stern forefinger as he met Kerwin's earnest gaze. "Honour and justice are the rights of all men. All men, my boy. All people. That is the will of our lord King, and that should be the rule you live by. Trust me; you will be a better man for it."

"As you are," Kerwin said, a brilliant smile flashing across his face and gone.

"Now, don't you go making me too big for my boots. Ah, I think I hear someone in the hall. Come, my boy. We've heads in the hollyhocks to tend to – goodness, won't that be a story to tell, don't you think? Some day when this is all over, of course."

** The End **

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**Characters:**

**From The Inn of the Burping Troll, located in Northern Ithilien**

Sevilodorf: Traderwoman and healer, once of Rohan, companion of Anardil

Anardil: Former Ranger, now in covert operations, companion of Sevilodorf

Halbarad: Captain of the Burping Troll Rangers

Bob: One of the Burping Troll Rangers

Celebsul: Male Elf of the Eldar

Erin: A hobbit lass from the Shire

Meri: A hobbit lass from the Shire

Tac: feline owner of Sevilodorf and Anardil

Warg: sentient Warg who has adopted The Burping Troll residents as her pack

From Wetwang Farm 

Russbeorn: Male, Beorning, once of the Misty Mountains

Nik: Male, undersized Uruk-hai once of Isengard.

**Northern Ithilien Orcs:**

Gubbitch: Chieftain of the Orcs

Lugbac: Male Orc

From Silverbrook, estate of Lord Darien of the Blackroot Vale Darien: Nobleman, once of Blackroot Vale 

Landis: Darien's second in command (_deceased,_ _mentioned in passim_)

Grady: Male (_deceased,_ _mentioned in passim_)

Neal: older of two young brothers from Blackroot Vale.

Evan: younger (15) of the two brothers from Blackroot Vale.

Carrick: Male, once of Lamedon

Osric: A friend of Grady's.

Ham: Male, once of Blackroot Vale.

Tom: Male, once of Blackroot Vale.

Bevin: Male, once of Blackroot Vale.

Horus: Male, once of Far Harad.

**Of Emyn Arnen:**

Faramir: Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien

Willelmus: Lord Faramir's Chamberlain

Anoriath: Lady Ranger, once of The Burping Troll

Elros: Male Ranger, once of The Burping Troll

**Of Minas Tirith:**

Margul: Once Cullen's employer, trader in exotic goods and services turned fugitive

Goldur: Lord Justice to King Aragorn

Kerwin: Clerk to Lord Goldur

Valthaur: Lord Justice to King Aragorn

Khint: Clerk to Lord Valthaur

Claremon: Lord Valthaur's Butler

Bren: one of Lord Valthaur's gardeners

Aragorn: King of Gondor

Meneltir: Lord Justice to King Aragorn (_mentioned in passim_)

**Of Henneth Annûn:**

Cullen: Son of Farmer Tiroc.

Sira: Barmaid at The Whistling Dog.

Cameroth: Male, owner of The Whistling Dog, father of Jasimir.

Jasimir: Teenage son of the owner of The Whistling Dog Inn.

Pansy: Barmaid at The Whistling Dog.

Jareth: Male, bartender at The Whistling Dog.

Tarannon: Captain of the Rangers in Henneth Annûn

Drath: Owner of The Black Cauldron Tavern

Lorgarth: Chief of the orcs employed at The Black Cauldron

Corbat: orc employed at The Black Cauldron

Smarith: Male traveller at The Black Cauldron

Baran: Male traveller at The Black Cauldron

Banazîr: Aged apothecary of Henneth Annûn

Eberle: Apprentice apothecary

Ranulf: Male, Gondorian soldier, brother to Grathir

Grathir: Male, Gondorian soldier, brother to Ranulf

Ted: Male, recent recruit at the Garrison of the Guard

Alfgard: once of Rohan, manager of the trading company and stableyard owned by Sevilodorf's Rohirrim family.

Linnet: Alfgard's wife

Nora: 10 year old daughter of Alfgard and Linnet

Alfwyn: 16 year old son of Alfgard and Linnet

Raberlon: Male stable hand, once of Rohan

Esiwmas: head of Sevilodorf's Rohirrim family (_mentioned in passim_)

Klareth: Male, stable hand, once of Rohan

**Employed by Margul:**

Odbut: Male Orc

Grom: Male Orc

Trog: Male Orc

Ursak: Male Orc

**Other:**

Bill Brushybottom: male, formerly of Bree, involved in lawsuit heard by Lord Valthaur, missing presumed dead (_mentioned in passim_)

Tibbles: cat belonging to Bill Brushybottom, deceased (_mentioned in passim_)


End file.
